Behind the Shield
by Yum
Summary: FBI Special Agent Leonard McCoy, White Collar Division wants to catch the Dutchman. But can the infamous James Kirk, a reformed young con artist, really help him? Or is this one big con, too? A revisit of White Collar's pilot, Star Trek style.
1. Teaser

**Author's Note: **This story came to be in a random conversation with my editor. We mused about the parallels and 'wouldn't it be fun' to explore Jim and Bones still gravitating towards friendship if placed in the same opposites as White Collar. Only difference here we decided was while marrying the two worlds together, they still needed to stay Jim and Bones. But it was just an idea.

Then the 2010 Star Trek Big Bang came along...LOL.

* * *

**Teaser**

It started with a blunt razor.

Jim Kirk had cut himself with it a few weeks ago because he had been inadvertently distracted. Only bled a little. Not enough to alarm anyone. It was just a nick that made his sideburns a bit crooked. Then again, who did he need to impress with equal sideburns? No one in here. Eddy had always laughed up at him joking they made him look—

…

Thinking about her made him pause; always did. And thinking about Eddy made him think about his brother Sam and that of course invited a whole other set of thoughts that were not going to be thought about absent mothers and too present step-fathers.

Well before the four (almost four) years of forced exile, Eddy and his brother had been the only anchors in the whole screwed up, spinning out of control world. Sam always figured out what their next meal would be; Jim and Eddy were in charge of figuring out how to get it.

In here, both decisions were taken out of his hands. You got fed when a bell rang, you ate what they gave you and that pretty much repeated with everything else. Repetition was something Jim had been accused of not appreciating. And why should he when it was so _boring_.

Plus, he'd already read every book in the library, especially the history section. Jim had vaguely hoped it would take him the entire four years. It hadn't.

In a whim of grandeur, Jim wondered if this was how ole Bonaparte felt being stuck in Elba, although he was pretty certain the people there were a lot more hospitable (prettier too) and sustenance didn't consist of greasy white gravy mystery meat he couldn't really eat. _(Stupid allergies)_

Jim stared at the home made razor he'd won after four hands and traded two cleaning shifts in the can for, then stared blankly at the tiny clumps of dark blonde hair floating in the sink. Huh? A muffled _clang_ of bars grinding across cement to close roused him.

Oh yeah. Razor.

Even though he hadn't care about the sideburns, the cut still hurt. Jim jerked back then and stared at the mirror to see how bad it was. Dark blonde hair, originally cut short because this place had had a problem with lice a few months back, Jim barely recognized the man on the mirror as the one who'd arrived almost four years ago. He smoothed a hand over his chin, not even noticing the raw scrapes across the back of his knuckles, and for the first time that day, felt a little less like someone had run him over with his own motorcycle. Hopefully someone would remember to replace his girl's clutch. It didn't do well in humidity.

A smile curved across his face—he could just hear Sam complaining about how Jim's brain was like a pachinko machine—while he glided a razor down to reveal a pale, smooth jaw. He made sure he avoided getting too tan otherwise the absence of the beard would be obvious. Too bad about the beard though. If properly trimmed, Jim liked how it made him look older.

A quick flick of the razor in the soapy water and the blade was clean enough to continue even as the whir of the security camera that was conveniently one broom smack short of making it's full circuit whirred overhead. Jim resisted humming; the downward, careful movements reminded him of echoing Toulouse-Lautrec's sweeping brushstrokes. He wondered idly if Sam had fenced Jim's _La Goulue_ while he was away. Jim hoped not. It was his one of favorite pieces. Jane Avril was kinda hot.

Jim wiped a hand across his jaw, tilting his head left and right to make sure he hadn't missed anything. A few experimental snips got rid of the anorexic, floppy bang, boy band look. That coupled with the untamed beard, had given him a little too wild man of the back alley one step above feral thing going. Shaving the beard away was like feeling layers of filth peel off his body like sun burnt skin. He didn't notice how cutting the fringe back also revealed the bruised, pale blue vulnerability in his eyes.

Satisfied, he turned on the squeaky faucet and ran dampened fingers through his hair, slicking strands back into the appearance of a gelled 'do. Jim arched an eyebrow at the mirror, examining the results. Huh. It also made his hair look darker. Perfect.

Heavy heeled footsteps clipped past the bathroom and Jim darted a look over his shoulder at the door, acutely aware he'd gone too long. Someone was bound to notice that he'd ended up in none of the places he had been supposedly escorted to. Damn, he shouldn't have drifted. Pachinko machine. Sam could be a jerk sometimes, but there were times when Sam was right.

One last check in the mirror, Jim winked at himself before pivoting around. One, two…there; the third stall with the 'Out of Service' sign he'd taped up yesterday during work detail. He ducked into the space and carefully lifted the top off the tank. Luckily, the staff's bathrooms used tanked systems. The rest of the bathrooms in the facilities were recessed into the wall.

Just then, the bathroom door swung open and footsteps entered.

Someone stopped in front of the stall door. Jim froze, the top gripped tightly in his hands. He didn't dare lower it, putting it back might make too much noise.

A voice called out and the footsteps clicked away. When Jim had to strain to hear, he relaxed and gingerly set the top down on the shut seat. Jim grabbed the large Ziploc tucked behind the float system.

Jim's brow knitted as he opened the package, the uniform unfolding out dry and iron flat new. He rubbed fingers along the fold lines to smooth them out. For the first time, Jim felt a quiver in his gut. He hadn't tried it when it came in, didn't dare; the size was a guess from him measuring himself with a straight ruler and counted hands spans during lights out. Too loose or too tight and it wouldn't hold up even to a casual eye.

The orange jumpsuit was shed and balled up to stuff behind the toilet. A purr of the zipper and a tuck of shirt tails later, Jim breathed a sigh of relief. Not too bad. He checked the sewed on badges and smoothed out the front. Jim glanced down at the boots one of the guards had discarded because of a broken sole Jim easily fixed. It was amazing what skills reading about history, especially WWII Nazi war camps gave you. Polished, pieces glued, the boots looked pretty much off the shelf. They weren't his footwear of choice but to be fair, guards didn't get paid enough to appreciate hand stitched quality.

Dressed, laced, Jim checked around the bathroom, made sure the sink was completely drained, the surfaces wiped down. He had about two, maybe three minutes left before the two different duty groups he'd been assigned to realized he wasn't at either. He took a deep breath.

_Here goes._

_

* * *

_

The machine shop was noisy; a fact that grated on Jim because he always thought the high pitched sound of metal yielding under saws sounded too much like human screams of pain. Today, it worked to his advantage as others, dressed like him but with badges and guns (couldn't get the former, didn't want the latter), winced and grimaced at the noise like they did every day. They were too annoyed at their surroundings to realize yet they were one less orange jumpsuit, one extra security guard.

Jim walked with the deliberate pace of a man who had somewhere to go; not too fast, not too slow, but in a direct line. He rolled his wrist up to look at the old piece of black leather and piece of circular metal studded into it; just enough times to appear he was checking the time and thinking about getting off shift, but not too many times that anyone could tell the face was really the head of a spork he'd flattened and sanded out.

A couple of the workers in orange paused in whatever they were soldering, welding, or hammering to give him a curious look. Most of them glanced over with nothing more than a disgruntled "oh, it's one of them" look. Others hesitated, trying to place him. Jim glanced at them as if inspecting them and they looked away like they usually did.

The card in his pocket was sharp against his palm as he curled a hand around it and pulled it out. He hoped the jury rigged recording strip didn't disintegrate the moment he swiped it into the reader.

With a short nod to the guard behind the gate, and angling his face away from the cameras above and towards the reader, Jim pulled out the card, glided it easily through the card swipe and reached for the handle as soon as the light turned green.

A fist reached out and grabbed the heavy gate, stilling it.

When Jim looked up at the guard, the man gave him a grin and widened the gap with the unwieldy door for him. To which, Jim smiled back, acknowledged the courtesy with an easy bob of the head and slipped out the door just as he felt the strip on the card in his pocket began to peel away from the surface. He resisted the urge to run. His calves ached with the effort of forcing an unaccustomed stride onto his body.

The air didn't smell sweeter as it was always suggested in books, but it did feel cool and refreshing against his face the moment Jim pushed the exterior doors open to the outside world. He stood at the foot of the steps and eyed the gray building and the surrounding fences crowned with barbed wire. He grimaced at the blue stenciled "S.F.A. Correctional Facility" on top of the highest fence that marked the only entrance in and out. He surveyed the parking lot and sighted the maintenance van.

With a check over his shoulder first, Jim trotted down the steps and headed towards the van.

* * *

Queens Boulevard was the perfect place to find what he needed after he crossed the Throgs Neck Bridge. Midday, everyone was too busy going to work to think about shopping. No one was there to observe a man strip off his dark uniform top and wander down the broad street in his white undershirt. He could linger, knowing there weren't enough people around to remember him.

Jim checked three places before he spotted it: a bright yellow canary windbreaker hanging off the construction fencing wrapped around an abandoned church. It was exactly what he needed. The color was right—albeit hideous as hell—and had the general shape.

"Only five dollars, man," the street vendor offered with a flash of teeth, an easy drawl and a jangle of beaded dreads.

Jim's smile was equally as bright.

"I'll give you three."

The truck was left in LaGuardia's long term parking. Jim slipped on the jacket, patted his hair back and stood across from the International Departures and waited with the other valets in their canary yellow jackets.

It was kind of like going fishing.

_Toyota. Forget it. Hybrid. No way. Mercedes? Hmmm…no. Townhous—Seriously? _

And there it was.

A nice black vintage Rolls Royce with its chrome lady gracing the hood came to a stand still in front, waiting for service. Jim whistled sharply, raising his hand to claim it before anyone else could.

Jim's broad smile was wasted on the driver, who was in too much of a rush to do anything more than bunch a hundred dollar bill and the car keys into Jim's waiting palm.

"Take good care of her; I'll be back in a month."

"Yes, sir," Jim promised, biting back the broad smile threatening to break out as he carefully pocketed the bill.

When Jim drove under the center tower of the Brooklyn Bridge, Jim sagged back into the plush leather seating and sighed sharply.

And now for the hard part.


	2. Act 1

**Author's Note: **It was fun marrying the two universes. I hope I was able to stay faithful to both...

* * *

**Act 1 **

_Lower Manhattan, New York City_

He needed coffee.

Special Agent Leonard McCoy felt like he was surrounded by Romper Room. And the sad part was he suspected most of these fresh faces most likely never even _heard_ of Romper Room, raised in the over-merchandised, over-colorized, overly politically correct world of purple dinosaurs and talking hammers. They looked like they worked _on_ Wall Street, not just in the standing in a bank on Wall Street, trying to break into one of the personal deposit boxes way. And of course the boxes didn't use keys, only combination locks which had stumped his whole team because Quantico apparently only taught them how to get into confiscated vaults with keys. Only Nyota had enough sense to call the main office and ask for a safecracker. Thank God their warrant covered that (sort of); he wasn't in the mood to argue with the assistant DA on whether or not a safecracker was _'logical'_. Not when he was this close to finally getting in.

The bank manager was upstairs having what his grandmother would call a fit of the vapors, doing the twenty first century's version of macho hand wringing: he'd already called the bank's corporate office screeching the FBI had brought in a warrant to break into their vaults.

Sulu and Chekov were off to the side, twin pairs of eyes glued avidly to the security camera monitors. They were whispering out of the corners of their mouths, no doubt about how they would have done things if it was up to them. Chekov had yet to outgrow looking like someone's baby brother with that curly light mop of hair and those suits that hung off his lanky frame like they were his father's. While Sulu acted sometimes like he needed to be the Japanese anime poster boy for the F.B.I., a little too eager to catch his perp and then pose in his G.Q, glory for the action hero shot.

Leonard was normally open to suggestions but after an hour and a half and Chekov's almost gleeful suggestion of using an industrial strength cutting laser, Leonard had decided he was better off with his boring, non-flammable safecracker. That kid worried him sometimes.

"…maybe some C4?" Sulu muttered. "We could blow the bottom out from the vault below. Wouldn't be _that_ big of an explosion."

_Christ._

"Nyet. Blowtorch?" The kid's words were strongly flavored with too much adrenalin and his mother's Slavic accent.

"Oh _yeah_, that could work…but who would do it?"

"We flip a coin?"

"How about rock, scissors, paper, lizard, S—"

_"Drop three." _At last, the speakers announced the first tumbler locking into place.

Pacing in a tight circle, Leonard gave up trying _not _to look like he was pacing. He ran a hand through his short dark hair and debated how pathetic it would be to call Nyota to have her do a Starbucks run. Yeah, Agent Uhura would _really_ appreciate a call from him asking her to get coffee.

_"Drop two."_

Leonard exhaled sharply and eyed the rest of his team all standing around with their notepads and identical looking pens. He smiled tightly at their barely suppressed eagerness. He clapped Chekov on the shoulder as he glanced at the monitor. It was hard to fight back the grin that wanted to break out. His skin thrummed with anticipation at each heavy thump of a tumbler pin dropping into place.

_"Drop four. All pins down, preparing to open."_

"Finally," Sulu groaned and Leonard silently agreed. Except…

"Three, two, four?" Leonard muttered. He frowned, his brow knitting. "Three, two, four…"

"What?" Chekov caught what he said.

Oh shit.

Leonard's eyes widened and he spun around on his heels towards the vault. "Wait!"

There was no warning.

It wasn't like in the movies; no beeping countdown, no deep booming concussion of sound. Just a lot of god damn smoke and dust.

"You okay?" Leonard demanded when one female agent crashed into him, coughing so hard it threw her balance. He braced her as he blinked tear streaming eyes. "Is everybody okay?" He scanned the rest of the room, everyone sputtering, hacking but still upright.

Chekov said something loud and definitely Russian (and probably rude) as he covered his nose and mouth with the crook of his bent elbow. He half-heartedly pushed Sulu away, waving him off when the other asked if he was all right. Satisfied, Sulu stumbled into the vault with Leonard.

The vault itself appeared to be fine, odd bits and clumps of what looked like rat nests on the ground smoldering. The smoke had an odd tang of copper and burnt paper to its odor. But no fire. And the safecracker himself was sitting on the floor, slack jawed and gaping. His comb-over was now parted the other way, his stupefied face and button down oxford blackened with soot. He looked like a bad cartoon.

Despite his stupor, the technician rose to his feet with his and Sulu's help and the three of them staggered blindly back through the billows of smoke and into the waiting area with the rest of the agents.

Chekov gave them a relieved look before he returned his attention back to the bank manager who had burst in after the explosion. Finnegan and Rand were brushing themselves off, banging the top of their monitors in a vain effort to get back the surveillance video of the vault interior.

"What happened?" the safecracker sputtered around Leonard's attempts to check his pupils.

"Hold still!" Leonard gripped the agent by the chin. "Follow my finger with your eyes." He breathed out sharply. "What happened was I said 'wait'!"

"And you didn't wait," Sulu mourned.

Leonard gnashed his teeth. "We've never been this close to the Dutchman before and you just blew up my evidence." He straightened, satisfied the man didn't have a concussion.

"Told you we should have used a blowtorch," Chekov muttered to Sulu.

"What are we going to tell our customers?" the bank manager bemoaned but everyone ignored him.

"Agent McCoy, how did you know it was going to do that?" one of the agents wanted to know.

Leonard glowered at the manager who had the good sense to turn and start harassing his own staff about clean up. Angrily slapping at his suit, dust puffing away from him like Lucifer's brimstone, Leonard nodded jerkily at Sulu. "Three-two-four. Look at your phones. What's it spell?"

Romper Room pulled out their cell phones and blinked at their screens. Smartphones, his ass.

Sulu winced. "Oh." He scratched his jaw. "F.B.I."

"Yeah, F.B.I.," Leonard bit out. The rest of the room started wearing the same chagrined grimaces.

"He knew we were coming," Chekov groaned.

"You think?" Sulu deadpanned.

Leonard waved angrily in the air at the fumes. "Ten thousand man hours up in smoke. Literally!" He started to brush off his shoulders when a shiny filament caught his eye. He snatched it up and waved it in the air.

"Somebody want to tell me what this is?"

At the collective blank looks, Leonard walked around with it pinched between his fingers. "Anybody? Wonderful. Nobody knows what it is?" He rolled his eyes and threw up a hand when everyone just gaped back at him like caught catfish. "Terrific. Look at you. How many of you went to Harvard?"

Everyone including Sulu and Chekov raised their hands.

"That wasn't a question!"

The hands dropped immediately.

Leonard muttered to himself as he glowered at the shimmery strip in his hand. Too wide to be hair, too narrow to be film. The agents gave him a wide berth and it didn't slip his attention there was a collective sigh of relief when Agent Nyota Uhura sailed into the room. She looked out of place in her perfectly pressed gray suit that complimented her dark skin. She raised an eyebrow at the scene before her, but aside from that and an absentminded toss of her long hair off her shoulders, it was the only reaction.

Uhura nodded at Sulu as she walked by, smiled at Chekov and stopped in front of Leonard. Wordlessly, she stuck out her arm, a steaming coffee cup in her hand.

"Remind me about this when it's time for your performance review," Leonard mumbled, only half-kidding as he swapped out the coffee in her grip for the odd strip. Uhura angled it towards the light and squinted at it.

"Apparently," Leonard said between slurps, "our boy has a sense of humor." He gave the still smoky room a grand sweep of his arm. He glanced up to find his former probie no longer studying the piece. Seeing her expression, Leonard pulled the coffee away. The taste of the bitter roast soured in his mouth. "This wasn't ESP," Leonard said softly. "This was to break me the bad news. What is it?"

Uhura grimaced.

"James Kirk escaped."

* * *

The look on his face was enough to send everyone scattering and those not quick enough, got a hurried "Make way. Sorry" from either Uhura or Sulu. Chekov dogged their heels, his precious laptop under his arm, radio in his hand, scrolling through his smart phone for directions for them.

"How long ago?" Leonard grumbled. He drained his coffee and gave the cup a regretful look before he chucked it into a wastebasket.

"They're not sure." Uhura never deterred from her smooth tone despite the fact she needed to quicken her pace to keep up with Leonard. "Guards only realized when they were doing their afternoon head count."

"Great. So Kirk probably already has several hours head start already on them." Leonard's mouth twisted wryly. And here he'd thought his day was bad, poor bastards.

"Who's James Kirk?" Chekov panted as he struggled to catch up.

"I'll tell you later," Sulu hissed but Leonard heard him anyway. He whipped around to face their youngest agent whose sudden unaccountability pissed him off even more.

"Kirk was suspected of forgery, embezzlement, fraud, you name it. The only thing we were able to pin on him was bond counterfeiting and now after all that work, those idiots—" A folder cut between him and Chekov, sparing the kid his tirade.

"What the hell is this?" Leonard spun back around to storm down the marble hallways head towards their squad van. He thumbed through the paperwork. He nearly groaned at the mug shot staring back at him. The deceptive Peter Pan smile grated him; it was the face of a man confident he could convince Tantalus he wasn't thirsty.

"U.S. Marshalls are requesting your help." Uhura shrugged as she passed down the file to Chekov.

"_My_ help?" Leonard half-turned towards her with a frown.

"He's very young," Chekov commented as he scanned the file. He read quickly, mouth moving. He never looked up as he neatly veered around people, through the revolving doors, out into the street where Leonard parked his car.

Uhura tipped a grimace towards Leonard's way. "Director Barnett asked for you personally."

Leonard groaned.

"Why him?" Chekov piped up.

"Keep reading," Sulu whispered to him, then tugged him by the arm so Chekov wouldn't get hit by the street vendor selling three dollar umbrellas out of a shopping cart.

Leonard stuck the key into the car door as he grumbled. "Because he hates me."

The grin was audible in Uhura's voice. "And probably because you're the only one who ever caught him."

"Ah. That would be a very good reason," Chekov agreed solemnly as he climbed into the backseat with Sulu. Uhura smirked from across the car at Leonard before she slid into the front seat.

Leonard thumped his head on top of the steering wheel a couple of times before he started the car. He ignored Sulu's yelp when he went into gear abruptly and cut off the M9 bus to get onto Broadway.

* * *

_S.F.A. Correctional Facility, Upstate New York_

"Agent Leonard McCoy, F.B.I.," Leonard muttered as he flipped open his ID. He heard the identical gestures behind him. Leonard's right eye twitched as the guards took their ID's and carefully wrote them down in the logbook.

"White Collar Division," Chekov supplied from the back. "New York City."

"They don't need to know that," Sulu muttered under his breath as he tapped his foot behind Leonard.

"Agent McCoy." Heeled steps herald the arrival of a heavy built man to the gates. He offered a dark hand and Leonard shook the firm, dry grip. This was a man not easily fazed nor impressed. "I'm Barnett, U.S. Marshalls. Appreciate the help. You were the case agent?"

Leonard grunted but at Uhura's sideways look, reluctantly added, "I was."

Barnett held the gate open for everyone to enter. He easily matched Leonard's pace as he led them into the prison.

"So you'll agree this is an unusual situation," Barnett rumbled.

Leonard sighed. _Everything_ with Kirk was unusual. Christ, chasing Kirk back then had all the earmarks of chasing rainbows; there was no way to know if he was really out there or what Kirk would lead you to.

"You mean as to why would Kirk run with three months left on a four year sentence?" Leonard grunted. He was wondering the same thing himself during the drive over. But then, Jim Kirk did things no one would ever guess. The kid pulled off the craziest shit, knew it and just did it again even though he knew the F.B.I. was hot on his trail.

"Three months?" Chekov exclaimed. His following words were muffled, edited by Sulu's elbow to his ribs.

Barnett sighed and for the first time, his face showed something else other than the bland expression of someone who thought he had everything under control. "Well, that's what we're wondering, agents." Barnett shook his head. He nodded towards a portly man hurrying towards them from the opposite direction. The jeers the man received as he went past the cells already told Leonard who he was.

"So you're the guy who dropped the ball," Leonard said as soon as a hand was stuck in his direction. He didn't take it.

"Boss," Uhura groaned under her breath.

Barnett pressed his lips together, as if disapproving, but Leonard caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth, his thin mustache upturning.

"Warden Komack. Special Agent Leonard McCoy."

Komack withdrew his hand. He glowered at Leonard.

"You of all people should know what Kirk's capable of."

"I know I spent three years of my life chasing him and you let him walk out the front door," Leonard retorted as he followed Barnett and Komack into the cell block.

Barnett cleared his throat. "Gentleman, might I remind you that Kirk possibly has a four hour head start?"

Leonard didn't tell him that if it _was_ four hours, they might have a better chance being struck by lightning than catching Kirk. He shared a look with Komack, a begrudging truce formed. They looked away, both clearing their throats.

The corridors lined with cells ignited with shouting as they passed. Sulu scowled at them as they walked. Chekov muttered as if he was replying to their comments under his breath. Leonard ignored the heckling around him; Uhura wore a bored expression despite the cat calls.

"Kirk came out of the E-block staff bathroom dressed as a guard." Leonard tapped the file Uhura gave him before. He glanced over to the warden. Komack coughed into a fist.

"Where did he get the uniform?" Chekov asked in the back.

"Uniform supply company on the internet," Barnett returned.

"Whose credit card?" Leonard drawled not even asking how he'd managed to get it delivered.

Out of the corner of his eye, Leonard caught Uhura choking back a smirk.

Barnett cleared his throat delicately.

Komack sighed.

"He, uh, used my wife's American Express."

"We're tracking the number in case he uses it again," Barnett added, sympathetically.

Leonard grunted. "He won't."

It was obviously which was Kirk's cell as they approached. Whereas the other cells were bland, walls painted a white already yellowing with neglect, Kirk's cell walls were papered with historical sketches, paintings and torn pages from architectural books.

"It looked like he was willing to wait it out," Sulu pointed to the walls.

_Or practicing for his next con_, Leonard thought darkly as he considered the drawings. Some he recognized currently hung on gallery walls or famous downtown buildings.

Hatch marks filled one of the walls, each row containing clusters of twelve, each stroke exactly the same length. They were perfectly straight like Kirk had used a ruler.

"One, two…" Chekov's nose was inches from the wall. He looked cross-eyed as he counted. He frowned.

"That's three years, nine months," Chekov reported.

At Barnett's look, Leonard shrugged. "He's good with numbers." He ghosted fingers over the tally.

"Just three more months, Kirk," Leonard muttered to himself. "Now why the hell couldn't you wait? You waited so long already…" His brow knitted and he checked over his shoulder at Barnett.

"How'd he get the key cards for the gate?"

"We think he used a piece of card board and restriped the tape on that." Barnett hooked up an audio cassette player with his fingers.

"I didn't think they still made those," Sulu murmured. To Chekov, he added, "Might be before your time, Chekov. That's what we used to call cassette players."

Chekov grumbled back about not being that ignorant. Uhura rolled her eyes.

Leonard punched the eject button and studied the cassette still inside. He snorted.

"What?" Komack asked testily.

Punching 'play', the twang of Willie Nelson thrummed in the cell. Komack's face grew beet red when the lyrics _"On the road again…" _warbled back at him.

"Cute," Uhura muttered.

Leonard stopped it mid-word because Komack was starting to look like he was going to have a stroke. He couldn't help himself though when he commented, "Should've given him a CD player."

Sulu coughed. Chekov sounded like he'd choked on a sneeze.

Shaking his head, Leonard felt more bemused than pissed now as he sat on the bed. A dog-eared copy of Stephen King's _Shawshank Redemption _tucked under the pillow. The corner was folded on the page with a penciled in smiley face on the part about Andy Dufresne's Rita Hayworth poster. He wondered how much of an asshole would he be if he asked the warden to check for holes behind the sketches.

Barnett paced around the confines of Kirk's cell, two fingers pointing at the walls like they were whiteboards. "He walked out the front door, hotwired a maintenance truck in the parking lot."

There was a thick car repairman's textbook from the prison's vocational library jammed between the wall and the bed. The pages were marked by torn pages of Whitman and Rupert Brooke.

Sulu took down notes with that damn moleskin notebook he always carried in his pocket. "Did you find the vehicle?"

"We found it abandoned near the airport."

Leonard flipped out a valet pamphlet for LaGuardia airport. Again from the vocational program, 'S.F.A. Vocation' was stamped across a line of yellow slicker wearing men with plastic smiles.

Komack jumped in. "We beefed up security just in case he tried to get out of New York that way."

"We're not going to catch Kirk using roadblocks and wanted posters." Leonard tossed the pamphlet to Uhura. She studied the front and back. Her eyes widened.

"Executive Services Airport Parking?" Uhura read out loud. "You think he's driving?"

Leonard grimaced. "Maybe, although the last car he had, he drove it off a quarry in Iowa."

Komack sputtered. Barnett looked faintly impressed and freaked. Chekov turned to Sulu and asked, "There are quarries in Iowa?"

Leonard tapped thoughtfully at a shard of mirror on top of a stack of books; a tower of paper sorted from the largest volume to the smallest. It made for an unusual elongated pyramid that reminded him of one of those weird modern art sculptures in MoMA.

Komack nodded towards the mirror. "He shaved his beard just before he escaped."

Leonard frowned staring at the meticulously created matchstick model of a sailing ship. "Kirk doesn't wear beards."

* * *

_Chelsea, New York City_

It was agreed that if they were ever separated or forced to go off grid, they would all go to ground far from each other, picking aliases by using the first letter of the first name of their last con.

There was no guarantee their rules still applied after he was incarcerated. Still, he went and checked anyway—the studio overlooking the antique flea market had been vacant for over three years. Sam had packed everything up, no doubt sold what he couldn't hide in storage and left. Jim found the motorcycle he had built when they'd first arrived in New York now owned by a bartender who had lived next door. Apparently the bartender had bought it with the notion of riding it one day, had lost his nerve after his girl dumped him their first night out and she'd been left wallowing in the joint garage ever since.

It was in the motorcycle: a slip of paper stuffed under the seat's stitching; Sam's new name George Frank.

And that was a sick joke. Here Sam said _he_ was the weird one. He gave the apartment building another look—it had been the longest place they'd ever stayed in—before he started walking west towards downtown.

* * *

_S.F.A. Correctional Facility, Upstate New York_

Leonard squinted and leaned closer to stare at the black and white monitors. He rolled his chair back and forth thoughtfully as he considered the freeze frame of Kirk with his wild and frazzled looking beard.

"Inmates are photographed each morning as they exit their cells," Komack explained.

"I hardly recognize him," Uhura murmured, her eyes glued to the screen.

"He looks nothing like the picture in his file," Chekov agreed.

Leonard rubbed his chin with a knuckle. He narrowed his eyes. "I think that's the point." Guys like Kirk never did anything without a purpose or an angle. He tapped on the monitor. "This morning?" he asked the technician sitting next to him.

Shrugging, the man checked the time stamp. "Yes, sir."

"Run the series back."

Leonard watched the beard and the hair shrink day by day, revealing more of the face he tracked for a good part of three years. Leonard noted prison food must not always have agreed with Kirk. The jaw line was more defined now, the chin more pronounced. He was surprised to find himself disturbed that the glint of humor Kirk always wore in his eyes like a badge of honor was also absent.

One image caught his eye and Leonard straightened in his seat. "Stop."

After a stutter, the screen froze at the smooth features of Kirk's face.

"That's it," Leonard declared, "when he stopped shaving." He studied the face, noted the lines at the corners of Kirk's mouth weren't there yet.

"I want to know everything that happened that day."

Damn it.

Leonard glowered at the flowery script taunting him from the lines of the logbook.

"He had a visitor." Leonard sighed heavily. He tossed the logbook back on the table. He glared at the coffee the warden's assistant had brought in. He wished it was something stronger.

Barnett leaned in and read over his shoulder, frowning.

"Edith Keeler." Barnett exchanged a look with Komack, who shrugged. "You know her?"

Leonard rubbed his fingertips over his right temple. He could feel the corner of his left eye twitching. Screw the coffee, he needed a _mallet_ to his head. "Yeah," Leonard said wearily, "I do."

* * *

_Somewhere in the West Village, New York City_

The loft was under Eddy's name yet the mailbox was in George Frank's name. Jim stared at the mailbox stuffed and barely shut. He ran a thumbnail along the numbers on the mailbox.

Picking the lock to the building was easy. Going up that first step, for some reason, was not.

* * *

_S.F.A. Correctional Facility, Upstate New York_

Edith Keeler was just as beautiful as he'd remembered.

Face of a porcelain doll, short dark hair, wide green eyes, Keeler walked like she was better suited for dancing. Leonard remembered the demure smile she gave him when he'd first brought her in for questioning. She looked him right in the eye and said she didn't know who George or James T. Kirk was.

"Wow," Chekov breathed. Even in the unforgiving black and white monitor, Edith was just as impressive. Uhura murmured a reluctant agreeing sound.

Edith sat there, her almond shaped eyes half-circles as she talked to Kirk. Leonard frowned as she turned, angled away from the security cameras.

"No audio?"

Komack's eyes were transfixed on Edith. He shook his head, distractedly. "No."

Barnett flipped through the logbook behind Leonard, muttering as he scanned the pages. "There she is again. Looks like she comes back every week like clockwork."

Strangely, Leonard felt better knowing someone came by to see the young con-artist. Kirk never came off as someone who could sit still and being forced to stay in one spot for a guy like him was probably regarded as worse than the actual prison itself.

Leonard suddenly frowned. He would _not_ feel sorry for the guy. He glared at the monitor. Leonard's brow knitted when it occurred to him.

"What about George?" he wondered out loud.

"Who?" Komack finally tore his eyes away from Edith.

"His brother. George Kirk—No, make that Sam Kirk." The older brother for some reason usually went with his middle name instead. "Anything in the logbook for a Sam or George Kirk?"

Barnett checked the logbook. After a few beats, he shook his head.

"No. nothing. It was just Keeler. Every week."

Leonard scowled, not really wanting to think about why that bothered him. Sam Kirk probably didn't want to chance implicating himself. Cautious bastard. He nodded towards the monitor.

"She's not thrilled about this visit."

In the monitor, Edith stood up. Kirk rose to his feet as well. He leaned forward into the glass that divided them.

"What is she saying to him?" Chekov asked.

Sulu tried but grunted when he couldn't hazard a guess. "How soon can we get a lip reader in here?"

Uhura, as efficient as always, pulled out her phone. "I can call headquarters and have some—"

"I'll save you the trouble," Leonard said suddenly. He studied the tense shoulders on Kirk as he twisted towards her when Edith walked away without a backward glance. "'Adios, Jim. It's been real.'"

"He can read lips, too?" Chekov whispered to Sulu, awed.

"No," Sulu whispered back.

Kirk remained standing, his hand on the glass, face turned towards the direction she'd left in. The technician chose that moment to freeze frame.

"She come back the next week?" Leonard asked, subdued.

"Nope. She never came back," Barnett replied after checking the logbook one last time.

Leonard breathed out slowly. He studied the image frozen in front of him. He couldn't see Kirk's face but his gut still tightened at the sight of him by the glass. Ah, stupid kid. In a flash of insight, Leonard knew where James Kirk went.

"Okay," Leonard sighed, "let's find Edith."

* * *

_Somewhere in the West Village, New York City_

The stone faced building with its pillars and reliefs was once a sewing factory, long since converted into lofts when the neighborhood evolved from its industrial roots to accommodate it's more eclectic and artistic residents.

Leonard gestured wordlessly with a hand for everyone to stay back as soon as he exited his car. Uhura and the others frowned but remained where they were. SWAT—that idiot Komack insisted they needed SWAT even though Leonard had argued guns weren't Kirk's MO—stayed half a block away. Thankfully, despite Komack's instinct that they arm themselves to the teeth, NYPD's SWAT seemed happy enough to avoid a bloodbath and stayed by their response van.

"We should go up there with you," Sulu complained, one foot out of the car.

"Kirk's not the kind to shoot first," Leonard murmured, but he checked his weapon just in case. He slipped it back into his holster and tugged his charcoal suit jacket back into place.

"Three fistfights and a bout of isolation," Uhura pointed out in a dry voice. Damn that woman's perfect memory.

"All self-defense," Leonard returned as he pocketed his radio. "I see him, we'll talk and I'll call you guys in to take him."

Chekov's face twisted as something occurred to him. "And if he _does_ shoot first?"

"Well, then skip step one and two and go right to three, all right?" Leonard huffed, shook his head at their scowls. "Kirk's MO is not—Yeah, yeah, I know. _Three_ fistfights." He'd have to ask Kirk about those later.

"Good luck," Chekov whispered as Leonard went in the front door.

Even though he disputed Komack and Uhura's misgivings, Leonard was acutely aware of his gun sitting heavy in his shoulder holster as he made his way up to the top floor. He grimaced as the floor creaked.

It was no surprise Edith Keeler and Sam Kirk had co-signed for a loft on the top floor. The three lives seemed to be intertwined as far back as Leonard could trace, Leonard had often likened it to a mess of yarn. What Leonard didn't get was why two weeks before Edith delivered her apparent 'Dear John' in prison, Sam's name had been removed from the lease.

Leonard pressed his back to the wall as he walked sideways, drawing closer to the door left open. Even from here, he could see the apartment was empty of furniture save a pair of legs sprawled out from behind a round column.

"I would offer you a seat," Kirk roughly said out of the blue, "but as you can see…" An arm materialized from behind the pillar to wave weakly at the space around him.

Leonard stopped a few feet from the door. He stretched out an arm and nudged the door wider.

"See Edith moved out."

A light-colored head peered around the pillar at him. The one blue eye he could see widened. A smile curved then dropped. Kirk turned back around.

"Should I be flattered or insulted they got you for this?"

Leonard scoffed. By the threshold, he gave the room a quick survey; not really fraught with danger or hidey holes but he eyed the shadowed corners regardless. Even in its gutted state though, he could tell the place was once impressive. Satisfied the loft was clear save Kirk, Leonard stepped into the loft.

"I'm trying to decide," Leonard replied as he ventured closer to the pillar, "if _I_ should feel flattered or insulted." He stilled in front of Kirk. The younger man sat there cradling a wine bottle in his hands, cushioned carefully on his lap.

Kirk blinked up at Leonard with red-rimmed eyes.

"Doesn't F.B.I. protocol dictate proceeding with caution?" Kirk gestured absently towards himself. "How do you know I'm not carrying?"

Leonard sobered, his hand twitching. It _had_ been a few years after all.

"I mean," Kirk went on, "Prison's been known to change people. Maybe I have a blade hidden in me. Maybe I've mastered knife throwing in Riverside."

"Didn't realize ninja skills were one of the vocational training courses," Leonard drawled. He studied Kirk's hands but they never strayed from the bottle.

"I could have a bazooka."

"A _bazooka_?" Leonard looked up and down Kirk's outfit.

"A very tiny bazooka," Kirk amended.

"You're right," Leonard shot back. "Prison _has _changed you: you think you're a lot funnier than you really are."

"One has to find a way to amuse oneself."

"_Are_ you carrying?"

Kirk grimaced. "You know I don't like guns."

"Well, there you go." Leonard cocked his head and studied the bottle Kirk rolled between his hands. He knew enough about wine to raise an eyebrow at the label. "They leave you a message in that?"

Kirk shrugged. "The bottle is the message." He squinted up at Leonard as if just realizing he was there. "It's been a while."

Leonard rocked a hand in the air. "Yeah, few years, give or take."

"And here I was hoping you were lamenting about my absence in your diary." It was painful to see Kirk smile, as if he'd forgotten how. He nodded towards Leonard. "Don't you have better things to do than chase me?"

"I do," Leonard grumbled. "You got everyone confused."

"I'm a complicated guy."

Leonard folded his arms in front of him. "They asked me, what makes a guy like you pull a boneheaded escape with three months to go?"

Kirk sighed heavily. He lowered his eyes to the bottle, his hand stroking the label. "A very good question," he murmured.

"Edith says adios to you in prison and gets busy with her disappearing act." Leonard gestured lazily around the loft. "The trail ends here. But you already know that."

Cloudy eyes stared at his own feet. "Missed her by two days. Sam's gone, too."

_Ah hell, kid_, Leonard sighed inwardly. It didn't matter Kirk was not that much younger than him. Leonard was feeling decades older right now. A thread of irritation rippled through him. This was all wrong. He shouldn't be feeling sympathetic for a _con_.

"Still. Only took you a month and a half to escape one of Uncle Sam's finest," Leonard acknowledged. He rocked on his heels and studied Kirk. "Damn impressive."

Kirk smirked tiredly.

Leonard's radio suddenly crackled with life. He rolled his eyes. His team was never known to be patient. He grabbed his walkie-talkie.

"Subject identified and unarmed."

_"Roger that."_

Kirk eyed Leonard's walkie-talkie. "We surrounded?"

"Yup." Leonard nodded as he gestured at Kirk with his radio. "Always have to be the center of attention."

Kirk's mouth twisted. "Nice to be missed." He paused. "How many?"

"Including my agents, and the Marshals? All of them, I think."

"That's it?"

Leonard barked out a laugh. "Hey, you've been in prison for a few years. Maybe they think you'd be rusty." He smirked. "Or they figured there are no quarries and '67 Chevy Impalas for you to crash—"

"It was a '69," Kirk corrected him almost absentmindedly. He palmed the wine bottle in his hands. "I would never crash a '67."

Leonard rolled his eyes. "Right." He considered Kirk. "The bottle. What's the message?"

Kirk gingerly set the empty bottle down and stared at the equally empty apartment. "Good-bye."

"Nice," Leonard grunted. At least it wasn't a text during a stakeout, telling him she didn't think it would be a good idea he came home.

"They're gonna give you another four years for this, you know," Leonard told him.

Kirk swept a hand down his dark trousers rubbing at his knee. "I don't care." It came out more a sigh than an actual reply.

"You should," Leonard muttered.

Kirk snorted but didn't comment. He looked up at Leonard. He shook his head and grimaced.

"What?"

Kirk slowly got to his feet. "That's the same suit you were wearing the last time you arrested me."

Leonard scowled. He checked himself and took inventory of the light gray suit, the striped black tie, the white shirt. "How do you know?"

Kirk tapped two fingers to his temple. "Photographic memory, remember?"

Leonard brushed a hand across the suit. Come to think of it, he might have worn this to testify against Kirk, too. "Classics never go out of style—"

"Unless they get old," Kirk quipped. "It's a nice cut, but you should consider darker tones." He hesitated, his eyes settling on Leonard's shoulder. He took a step forward, his hands up until Leonard nodded warily. Kirk approached slowly. He made sure Leonard saw where his hand was as he drifted it over his shoulder before plucking something off. Kirk lifted a red filament up for Leonard to see. Kirk stared hard at it, looking cross-eyed for a second before his gaze snapped up to him.

"You know what this is?"

Leonard grunted. "No idea. I got that from a case I was supposed to be working on before they yanked me off to find _you_."

"You think you'll catch him?"

Leonard shrugged. "Don't know. He's good." He nodded towards what Kirk held. "Maybe as good as you."

Kirk scoffed. "Maybe." Kirk glanced over his shoulder as the hallway echoed with the rush of footsteps coming up the stairs. He turned back to Leonard.

"What's it worth if I tell you what this is? Is it worth a meeting?" Kirk asked abruptly.

Leonard's brow rose. "Meeting? What are you talking about—?"

Kirk stepped closer and Leonard found himself taking a step back even though Kirk made sure his hands were in view. "If I tell you what this is, right now, will you agree to meet me back in prison in one week?"

Leonard stared at him. His eyes narrowed as he considered Kirk and pressed his mouth together. "A meeting," he repeated flatly.

"Just a meeting," Kirk stressed.

"Hallway, clear! You two, now get moving!"

Kirk glanced back. He made a frustrated sound and faced him again. He kept his eyes on Leonard when he dropped the fiber into Leonard's palm. "It's a security fiber for the new Canadian hundred dollar bill."

At that moment, SWAT burst into the room, a swarm of Kevlar and boots and shouting.

"Federal agents!"

"Hands in the air!"

"Step away from him!"

"Back away from him!"

It occurred too late to Leonard that the proximity was probably a danger sign to the agents who stormed in but before he could shout out he was fine—that Kirk was unarmed, damn it—one of the Marshals grabbed Kirk's arms from his raised position and yanked them behind him.

_Don't hold him like that, don't hold him down like that! _

A memory of Sam Kirk's panicked shouting back echoed in Leonard's head. His voice had reverberated in the temporary holding cell when his younger brother reared back against the Iowan prison guards. Two, three, it took four to hold him down, Sam crouched on the ground on his hands and knees, talking to the younger Kirk in low, urgent tones to calm down, to calm down. It was okay. It was okay.

"He's unarmed! He has no gun!" Leonard snapped but too late, he saw that same flare in Kirk's eyes the moment the agent braced their knees to his lower back, their arms looped around him to hold him under them. Slapping a handcuff around one wrist.

The jerk of the shoulders had the marshals tightening their grip. And James Kirk lost it. Leonard's own cursing went unheeded and some well-intentioned agent tried to tug him away from Kirk. One stumbled back holding his nose, another retaliated by slamming Kirk's face into the floorboards.

"Back off!" Leonard wrenched free and staggered to Kirk. He dropped to one knee, a hand on Kirk's shoulder. He could feel muscles, tendons bunching under his hand in reaction.

"Calm down," Leonard hissed close to Kirk's ear. "Stop fightin—_Jim_!"

Kirk started. He stilled. The agents around them stood over them like barbed wire but did nothing when Leonard impatiently waved them off. Leonard waited as the ragged breathing slowed and Kirk lifted his head.

"Sam?" came the reedy whisper. "Are they gone?"

Leonard gripped Kirk's shoulder and gave him a firm shake. He could hear Uhura snapping at everyone to step back.

"No," Leonard said clearly. "Listen to me. Calm down. Don't make things worse for yourself."

Blue eyes cleared and Kirk focused on Leonard with an intensity that left him at a loss for words.

"All right?" Leonard asked low. The blue stare was unnerving. "You with me?"

An aborted nod was all Leonard got.

"One week," Kirk said shakily. At Leonard's hesitation, Kirk repeated it, his voice firmer. "One week."

"Let's go." With a sharp click of the handcuffs, Kirk was dragged away but Leonard could him his gaze pinned at him, still mouthing "One week" at him.

"What was that all about?" Uhura asked, joining him to watch Kirk being led away.

Leonard held up the shiny thread. "You know what this is?" he asked evenly.

"No one has figured it out yet."

"Kirk did."

Leonard could feel Uhura next to him stiffen in surprise. "What is it?"

"Apparently," Leonard said slowly, "it's a security fiber for the new Canadian hundred dollar bill."

"Huh," Uhura muttered staring after the shadowy figures in the stairwell. "We'll see about that." Holding the thin piece, she walked out of the loft, her direction determined and resolute as she went after the Marshals.

Leonard shook his head. He checked around the loft. All that was left was the footprints of the agents who had charged in, the crumpled yellow windbreaker in the corner and that damn bottle which somehow had survived the fiasco intact. Leonard wiped a hand across his face and trudged towards the door.

He stopped.

Leonard scowled to himself.

"Fuck," he exhaled and abruptly pivoted on his heels back into the loft. He bent down and grabbed the wine bottle.

_For evidence_, Leonard told himself as he carried the damn thing down with both hands.


	3. Act 2 Part 1

**Act 2 (1/2)**

_Federal Plaza, New York City_

He was being watched.

Leonard raised an eyebrow at the scattered gathering in the lobby as he went through the metal detectors. He could hear muttering, eyes surreptitiously cast his way, hastily averted when he met them dead on.

_What is this, med school? _It was like walking down a corridor again full of gawking residents who didn't know how to mind their own business.

Leonard gave a head shake as he walked down in a determined clip towards Uhura and Sulu, waiting for him by the main elevators.

"Morning," Leonard greeted. "What's got the belt and suspender boys all riled up?"

"You."

"Me?" Leonard stopped. He eyed the other agents behind them. They failed miserably pretending to look at something else. "What'd I do?"

Uhura handed him the folder under her arm. She walked along with him, waiting until he read the first page.

"Kirk was right. That stuff from the bank vault?"

Sulu jumped in. "Security fibers for the Canadian hundred."

Leonard found himself stopping again. He let out his breath in a whoosh. "I'll be damned."

"Apparently, the formulation's still classified." Uhura grinned. "The Canadian Secret Service are very curious to know how you figured it out."

"Chekov was politely cursed out in French," Sulu added. He chuckled under his breath as Leonard skimmed the file.

"You may have started an international incident," Uhura told him.

It irked him that his agents had the nerve to look excited. He was damning himself as well for feeling a quiver of anticipation in his own gut.

"This should be fun." Leonard grumbled halfheartedly before he made a beeline for the coffee kiosk by the elevator.

* * *

_S.F.A. Correctional Facility, Upstate New York_

"So how'd you know?"

_La finta semplice_ humming in Jim's head petered out as the waiting room door opened. He looked up at McCoy and grinned.

"C'mon, Bones. It's what I do."

McCoy scowled. "Don't call me that."

Jim's brow furrowed. "What?"

"Call me Bones. We're not on a nickname basis and what the hell kind of name is Bones anyway?"

Jim spelled out the name in Latin then Russian on the table with a finger. "Weren't you going to be a doctor before you were recruited?"

"Yeah," McCoy replied evenly.

"Surgical residency, right?" Jim remembered. Jim wasn't sure why McCoy sounded so pissed. "Graduated from medical school early. A regular Doogie Howser at least until you went back to Harvard, then Quantico."

McCoy grunted, unimpressed and if anything, appeared even more pissed. He folded his arms and leaned against the wall. "Your point being?"

"So, Bones seems apt, short for 'Sawbones' like how they—"

"I know what it means."

Jim smirked. "Or I could call you Scully. Take your pick."

"McCoy is fine."

"That wasn't one of the choices," Jim pointed out.

"Well, it is one of _mine_." McCoy faced him and frowned at the bruise Jim knew was still visible under his right cheekbone.

"Heard you got into a fight during the transfer back here."

Jim shrugged. "A scuffle between me and my handlers. I don't like to be manhandled."

"Uh huh." McCoy's eyes bore into him. "Any particularly reason why?"

None that he wanted to think about. Jim cleared his throat."So how upset were the Canadians?"

McCoy blinked at the abrupt change of topic but he let it pass. He shrugged one shoulder. "As upset as Canadians can get."

McCoy waited standing there. He stared at Jim, eyeing the bruise again, and then down at the other man's absently tapping fingers against a thin folder. "Mozart? Really?"

Jim gave a careless shrug but didn't stop tapping.

McCoy opened his arms wide. "Alright, so, I agreed to a meeting. We're meeting. Now what?"

"I know why you call him the Dutchman." Jim fought back the smile at McCoy's startled expression. "Like the ghost ship, he disappears whenever you get close."

McCoy's eyes shrank into slits. "How do you know anything about him?"

Jim sniffed. He shrugged. "You chased me for how long? You know my life; you don't think I know yours?" Jim grinned obviously pleased making McCoy's glower only intensify. Jim's smile widened innocently. "By the way, did you get the birthday cards?"

The shadows receded. McCoy rolled his eyes. "Nice touch."

"You've been after the Dutchman almost as long as you were after me." Jim leaned into his elbows and met McCoy's gaze. "I'll help you catch him."

"Really?" McCoy, Jim had noticed, tended to react with varying degrees of eyebrows. He considered Jim now with a skeptical '"You're shitting me" raised one. "And tell me, how exactly does that work? You wanna be prison pen pals? Running out of Hallmark cards?"

Jim stared at him for a long moment, then took a deep breath. He slid over a folder towards McCoy, who hesitated before taking it. The agent opened it gingerly as if it was a bomb. As if.

"You can get me out of here. There's case law, precedent, I can be released into your custody—"

McCoy scanned the pages but he was already shaking his head. "Nice. This is very nice. But you're right, I _do_ know your type. I know the second I get you out, you'll take off after Edith and your brother."

Jim swallowed. "I'm not going to run," he said in a lower voice. When the agent sniffed in disbelief, Jim pointed to the second page of the printout. "GPS tracking anklet. The new ones are tamper proof, never been skipped on. Not once."

"There's always a first time." McCoy sat down across from him. He shoved the folder back at him. "You were quite the Houdini back then."

"And who better to catch a con artist than Houdini? Think about it."

McCoy stared at him in disbelief. "_Think_ about it? What's there to think about? The answer's no." McCoy gestured at the folder. "I finally got you in here, you think I'm going to open the door and give you a free pass?"

"I told you. The GPS—"

"Is not perfect." McCoy scooted his chair back. "Not a chance I'm willing to take. Not with you."

Jim fought down the edge of desperation. Nobody ever gave you free food if they knew you were hungry. "Not even to catch the Dutchman? The Dutchman. A much badder guy than I ever was?" He held his breath when McCoy paused but his stomach dropped when the agent shook his head.

"Nope. Not even for the Dutchman." McCoy rose to his feet. He gave Jim a pat on the shoulder as he walked out. "Nice try."

* * *

_It always came as a surprise. _

_It didn't matter that by ten he was an expert at reading Frank's volatile moods. The stench of booze in the house served as a barometer going from Number One Dad to Number One Asshole. Lately, since she'd been away more, it had been more and more of the latter._

_Still, as he sat there on the floor, wishing Sam was back from school already, barely able to breathe through his swollen nose, the second fist came as a surprise._

_The boot too._

As usual, Jim woke silently. Yelling, no matter whatever the reason, drew far too much unneeded attention: turns out something from his childhood matched up exactly with prison.

It took a few minutes to reorient himself because when he now turned over in his bed, Edith's smooth, warm shoulder was absent. He wasn't four anymore, creeping over to see if Sam awake and willing to let him crawl in. And Sam and Eddy weren't here either to talk out the shadows distracting him with the planning of the next challenge.

Jim adapted, incarcerated or not. A habit borne out of when Sam and he ran away because sleeping on filthy ground or in dirty bus stations was better than sleeping under the same roof with Frank any longer.

The bare bulb sparked to life and Jim stared at the sallow light as it swung above him like a hack hypnotist's pocket watch.

You're getting sleepy. Sleeeepy.

Nope. Not working.

_"Lights out, Bobby, shut 'em down."_

Jim blinked blearily at the crackle of a radio. Heavy, familiar footsteps stopped by his cell.

"Jim, gotta turn that off," the guard muttered with a bit of apology. Jim smiled tiredly. Bobby was all right.

"Get one more minute, Bobby?" Jim whispered back.

The guard paused before sighing, relenting. "Okay, one more minute."

"Is it midnight yet?"

"Yeah, it's midnight."

Jim sat up, nodded gratefully at Bobby as he lumbered on his patrol. He stared transfixed on the bulb before one swing revealed the hatch marks on the wall. Another swing revealed everything had been stripped down off the walls. Bobby told him it was the rules; Jim was pretty sure it was Nogura's passive aggressive way to tell Jim 'fuck you'.

There was a way out of this. Jim knew it even if right now, he didn't know how. So McCoy wasn't onboard. Yet. Jim would find another way. Because there _was _another way. Jim was sure of it.

Jim smoothed a palm on the wall over his bed. He fumbled for the piece of charcoal that had been stuffed into his mattress. With a deliberate stroke, Jim made one more mark. He stared at it for a long time. Finally, when Bobby came back whispering regretfully. Jim laid back on his bunk as the guard flipped off the cell block light.

Staring at the short mark on the wall, Jim drifted back to sleep.

Thankfully, this time, it was a dreamless one.

* * *

_Three months later…_

_Brooklyn, New York_

The cupcake looked ridiculous.

The square card with the pink frosted cupcake on it looked like the very thing a doctor, a practicing one at least, would argue you shouldn't feed a little kid to eat.

_"So did you catch him yet, Dad?"_

Leonard smiled fondly at the tiny question in his earpiece. "Not yet, honey," he sighed.

_"Is he as hard to catch as James Kirk?"_

There was no resentment in Joanna's voice. She was too young to remember three years of late working hours and hasty notes. At the time, Jo was still trying to figure out why Billy pushing her off the monkey bars meant he liked her, how to color within the lines and why Daddy was in New York and she was in Atlanta with her mother.

"I caught him again a few months ago," he murmured as he flipped to another card; this one was a dog wearing a stethoscope. Christ, where the hell did Kirk get these?

_"He ran away from jail?"_ Jo was old enough now to know that was bad.

"He'd be out today." Leonard pinched a spot between his nose. Why the hell had he pulled these out anyway when he should be reviewing the notes on the Dutchman like he'd planned?

_"Then why did he run away again?"_

"So I could catch him and let him go again," Leonard muttered.

There was a pause. He could see his girl wrinkling her nose.

_"That didn't make sense, Dad."_

Leonard chuckled. "Neither does Jim Kirk."

_"Um…do you think he's tricking you?"_

"Maybe." Leonard leaned into the couch and glowered at the retriever staring at him from under the dining table. The dog wisely didn't jump onto the couch. Of course, when Jo visited, all training went out the window. "It's a working theory. He says he wants to help me find the Dutchman."

_"You were looking for a very long time."_

Leonard sobered. "I'm sorry, sweetie."

Jo's bright answer loosened something in his chest. _"That's okay." _She yawned._ "You'll catch him. Maybe with James Kirk? Mommy said he was super smart."_

Leonard scowled. "He's not _that_ smart."

_"Not as smart as you, Daddy_," Jo chirped. Another yawn; this one was loud enough that he could hear his ex chiding her in the background.

Leonard chuckled. "I think it's past someone's bedtime there." He smiled softly as he touched the earpiece. "It's getting late over there."

_"It's late where you are too,"_ Jo pointed out.

"That's enough sass from you," Leonard pretended to growl. "Go to bed, young lady."

_"Night, Daddy! See you soon!"_

Leonard's smile broadened. Two weeks. "Right after camp," he promised. "We'll do something fun, okay?"

Jo babbled in his ear, with all the energy of a nine year old, Leonard envied. He bade her good night two more times, laughing as he could hear his ex make the final decision by plopping daughter and phone into the bed. Jo landed with a squeak.

_"Finally."_ Jocelyn came on the phone with an exasperated sigh. _"I think she takes after you, Len. She doesn't sleep."_

"Just keep her away from the coffee," he replied gruffly. It was still strange to be back on speaking terms with Jocelyn. Time and several states apart had done what apparently sixteen marriage counseling sessions couldn't. "Don't get her started on that habit."

_"Between your night owl habits and my own addiction to caffeine, I think it's too late_," she said dryly. _"So what's this I hear about Jim Kirk?"_

Leonard groaned. "Joss, I've had to hear that name for years. _Please_."

There was a light chuckle that echoed Jo's—or would that be the other way around. _"You think you're tired of hearing his name? Do you remember how many times I had to explain to Jo when she was little that James wasn't her lost big brother? The way you used to go on about him. I heard he escaped. Wasn't he going to be released soon anyway? Why would he do that? He was almost out."_

"Today, actually."

_"Ah, hence the extra long call."_

"Sorry."

_"It's fine. School's out. You and I agreed so long as it didn't interfere with school."_

"Thanks."

Jocelyn hummed. _"So what's going on with Jim now?" _She paused. _"That deal you were telling me about before? You're considering it, aren't you?"_

"No," Leonard grumbled.

_"Liar."_

"See? This is why we divorced."

_"No, we divorced because you couldn't let go. It was always one more guy for you go after. It never ends."_

Leonard winced at the dig. "I wasn't that bad."

_"No, you were worse."_ Jocelyn exhaled. _"They're not all to blame for David, you know."_

Setting his mouth, Leonard said nothing.

Jocelyn sighed. _"That Dutchman is now your new James Kirk. Bet you're even looking at those weird cards Kirk sent you again."_

Leonard jerked his hands back from the folder. "Not."

Jocelyn merely chuckled. _"You have to admit. Kirk's smart; probably smarter than those Ivy League Co-eds they throw at you. You said it yourself a few times you wished he were on your side."_

"Maybe," Leonard grumbled. "He certainly figured out some things my team couldn't." He fingered the newest card he'd received from Kirk a month back that told him to check the wire transfers. Sure enough, Chekov found a link, but they were three days too late. The office the wire had come from was gone.

_"So, what's the problem?"_

Leonard scowled. "This is not the way it's supposed to go. You get caught, you do your time. There's more to this, more to this than some lost love. Kirk's a con. There's some side angle he's playing. That's what they all do."

_"So you suggest he escapes a high security prison, knowing full well that you'd catch him, just so he could trick you into letting him out again?"_ Jocelyn paused. _"Jo was right. That doesn't make sense. You should keep working on that." _Jocelyn sighed.

_"Is it so hard for you to believe a man would do that for the woman he loves?"_

Leonard grunted. "He just bought himself four more years in prison. For what?"

Jocelyn grew quiet. _"Seven years ago, you're saying you wouldn't have run for Jo and me?"_

_

* * *

_

_S.F.A. Correctional Facility, Upstate New York_

It was an odd sense of déjà vu stepping out of the double doors. Jim shielded his eyes with his hand but stared up towards the sky anyway.

McCoy waited, beyond the gates, sitting on the hood of his car. Jim stood there then walked forward spreading his arms wide as he grinned at him.

McCoy crossed his arms. "Let me see it."

Jim's smile dropped. "Hello to you, too," he grumbled as he hitched up his pant leg, revealing the black band of the tracker tight around his ankle.

"You understand how this works?"

"I'm being released into the custody of the F.B.I., under your supervision." Jim was tempted to quote back the paperwork to him, but McCoy would probably say he was being a show-off. Jim limped a little for show. "And this thing chafe's my leg. Anything I'm missing?"

McCoy looked steadily at him. "If you run, and I catch you, which you know I will because I'm two and zero. You run on me and you're not back here for four years, you're back here for good."

Jim swallowed but nodded.

"I know you're tempted to look for Sam and Edith." McCoy straightened away from the car. "Don't."

Jim's shoulders slumped. "I told you," he said quietly, "the bottle meant good-bye."

There was an odd flicker that went across McCoy's expression and the grim lines eased a fraction.

"All right," McCoy replied just as quietly. "Then leave it at that for now." Jim was surprised when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He raised his eyes and met McCoy's. "This is a temporary situation. Help me catch the Dutchman, we can make it permanent."

Jim nodded slowly. "Sounds fair." He eased into the passenger seat. "Right. So, where we headed, Bones?" he asked when McCoy climbed in.

To Jim's amusement, McCoy glared at him. "To your new home. And don't call me that."

Jim snickered as they drove away from S.F.A. in a more leisurely pace than Jim had adopted months before. He smirked to himself as McCoy grumbled, "Bones" under his breath. Something in Jim's chest loosened hearing the oddly familiar muttering next to him.

Years ago, he'd given Eddy her nickname and she had hated it.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the man next to him before looking back out the passenger window.

It had only taken three years. But he'd convinced her she was stuck with it and him. No take backs.

After all, convincing people was what Jim was good at.

* * *

_Corner of West and Barrow Street, New York City_

"You're kidding…right?" Kirk stared at the rusty 'Hotel' sign swaying in the Hudson River breeze.

Leonard rolled his eyes.

"That's the worst example of urban decay I've ever—Hey!" Kirk yelped when McCoy grabbed him by the back of the thick pea coat and dragged him in.

He stood stiffly by Leonard as he tried to get the clerk's attention. Kirk made a point of not lean into the counter. Leonard glanced at the stained wood and silently agreed; he took a step back.

"This is Jim Kirk, my office called earlier?" Leonard nodded towards Kirk before taking a sip of the coffee he bought from the cart outside. He gagged and made a note to pass the location to the city's health department.

The portly man snorted. He reeked of tobacco and…well, he reeked. He nodded, distracted, his eyes rolling around to look anywhere but at them. "There you go," the clerk announced after he fumbled blindly behind him for the keys. He dropped a keychain tagged with a sticky plastic tab. He gave his thinning white head a scratch. "Snake Eyes."

"Thanks," Kirk managed to choke out. He tugged at Leonard's elbow. "Can I talk to you for a second?" Leonard sighed. He went along until they stopped by the wall mounted rack of outdated New York pamphlets. A man, dressed in rags and smelling like boiled hot dogs was leaning on that wall. He winked at them both.

"Maybe a little farther down," Leonard suggested. Kirk seemed more than happy to oblige.

_Thonk_! Over by the counter, the clerk smacked the ping pong racket he was holding onto the counter. Someone guffawed. Jesus.

Kirk leaned in, still holding onto Leonard's sleeve. "Do I really have to stay here?" he whispered fiercely.

Leonard looked around. Inwardly, he grimaced. He steeled himself though. This wasn't a vacation. It wasn't supposed to be.

Kirk made a face. "I think you should get this place condemned." He looked at the people around him. "Even prison was cleaner. This place is like communicable disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence."

_Thonk_ went the ping pong paddle again.

"Well, maybe not the silence part."

"How very Conrad of you," Leonard rolled his eyes.

"You're taking me too literal. I think I was more Dostoyevsky."

Leonard made a face at a stain on the wall he suspected was not the typical water stain. Even if he wanted to do this differently there weren't a lot of options here. "Look, it costs seven hundred a month to house you on the inside," Leonard hissed, "And that's all they give for you. For the money, this is as good as it gets." He slapped Jim's hand off his sleeve. "Cowboy up."

Kirk blinked at him. "What is that even supposed to mean?"

Leonard gritted his teeth. This place was a rat hole, but what else could he do? "All right, you find something better for the same cost—take it."

"_Really_?"

"_Legally_," Leonard bit out. Kirk was too appeased for his liking.

Kirk looked affronted. "Hey, I'm reformed." He grinned toothily at Leonard. He peered down at himself and plucked at the white undershirt. "What about clothes? I'm wearing my entire wardrobe."

"You like thrift stores? There's one at the end of the block." Leonard held up a hand when Kirk opened his mouth. Did Kirk even have any idea how much paperwork it had taken to get him out. His bosses had not been about to dip in for extras. "No, don't start, no, no and no." He gestured at the woman perched on the stairs swinging her beaded pink purse. She winked at them and adjusted her…top. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? Out. Among people. Oh, look at her, you don't get that invitation for socializing in prison much, do you?"

"Hey, sugar."

Leonard blanched when he realized she was looking at him, _not_ Kirk. This just kept getting better and better. Kirk was out. He was a felon. He'd stayed in much worse places. The file said so. It was stupid to feel anything about this. This should be a done deal. Yet, McCoy hesitated at Kirk's dejected expression. Why did he feel like he'd just kicked a puppy?

"Listen," Leonard tried again, "your tracking anklet is set up so you can go out anywhere you want within two miles of this place." He sighed when Kirk didn't respond. Leonard clenched his teeth. There was no way he was apologizing for this. Just because Kirk got out of prison, months after when he should have gotten out because he'd pulled that harebrained escape, it didn't mean he could go back to his old life lying and cheating people, staying in fancy hotel rooms paid by other people's pockets.

"Here's your homework." Leonard handed Kirk a stack of files. He gave the younger man an awkward pat on the back. "Remember, two miles." He lingered, unsure if there was anything more to say. Or if there were what it should be. "I'll see you tomorrow at seven, okay?" He turned to leave.

"Hey."

Leonard checked over his shoulder.

Kirk smiled wanly at him. "Where's that thrift store again?"

* * *

_Salvation Army Thrift, West St, New York City_

McCoy hadn't been lying.

Thrift stores were usually the best places Jim found to get what he needed and to do what needed to be done. Oddly he felt a strange kinship with the stuff in thrift stores. His fingers running over the odd hideously "Italian" painted plate or snowglobe from Vale. All these things tossed away without a backward glance but still maybe something of value amidst it all if someone just bothered looking closer.

Sam had always looked at thrift stores with disdain. He said he was tired of always getting the leftovers from other people's lives. Eddy tended to agree, wanting newer, _better_, things. And if it meant cashing in the occasional forged _Monet_ or _Bellini_, so that someone who had plenty of cash tossed some of it aside on their worthless junk rather than another souvenir of their trip to Bali, or Paris, or Geneva, stuff that was going to be just sent away to a thrift store eventually anyway, then so be it.

Jim wandered over to the stacks of clothes and listlessly poked through the offerings. Too many holes, too faded, too smelly, way too 80's. He noted what could be salvageable, what couldn't. He tried to think nothing of the fact that he looked up a few times, a question for Sam and Eddy at the tip of his tongue.

"I've come to donate these."

Jim glanced over to the register. The bored looking teenager flipped through a stack. The gentleman standing in front of her wore a tiny smile on his lightly lined face. Dark hair, graying at the temples, dressed in a tailored suit, the lithe athletic built man appeared out of place among the dusty racks.

"Old suits," the clerk commented with a wrinkle of her nose. She twirled a finger on a white braid that hung down over dyed black hair.

"Yes," the man said, sounding more amused than offended, "they are."

As Jim drew closer, he noted the man was in maybe his early fifties—definitely not old enough to have worn the style of suits on the counter—resting his weight on top of a sleek ebony cane. Not just decorative then.

"Those are fantastic," Jim blurted out when he caught sight of the blue gray jacket's notched collar.

Piercing blue eyes swiveled to him. They narrowed slightly and Jim found himself fighting the urge to fidget.

After a beat, after whatever the man saw, he smiled briefly. He gave Jim an abbreviated nod. "Belonged to my late father. He had great taste in clothes." He shrugged.

Jim studied the jackets. He couldn't imagine ever having this much stuff from his father. All he had was a blurred photo that Sam kept in his wallet. It was the only thing left after the plane crash. Their mom had taken all the rest away, as if holding the box of things could give her back her husband. When they didn't, she'd hidden them all, and tried to replace the pain with Frank. _That _didn't work.

"Want to give them a try?" the man said quietly, his eyes keen on his face. He nodded towards the top one.

It was a good weight in his hands. The seams were tiny, even and clearly handmade. Jim hesitantly flipped the collar to the label on the dark blue jacket and whistled. "This is a Devore."

"Huh?" the clerk said. She scrunched her face at the clothing. Black painted fingernails picked at another to look at its label. "De-what?"

The older man chuckled. "Kids these days don't know about Devore." He gestured towards the jacket Jim slipped on carefully. "My father won that one from Sy himself."

"Won it?"

"He beat him at a back door draw."

"Your father played _poker_ with Sy Devore?" Jim squeaked. Okay, that wasn't cool. Jim hastily cleared his throat.

The man just shrugged again.

Dazed, Jim didn't realize he was toying with one of the hats until he flipped it unto his head.

"I'm glad to see someone can appreciate these." The man chuckled as he watched Jim try another jacket. "I was hoping someone would. I've got a whole closet full of them."

Jim stilled. "A whole _closet_ full of Devore?"

The clerk looked between Jim and the other man. "Is that like vintage and stuff?"

Jim shook his head ruefully and exchanged an eye roll with the man.

It had turned into a pleasant chat that ended too briefly for Jim. Jim regretfully bade the man goodbye, promising to be back in the thrift store the next day if possible. Especially if there was a closet full of Devore! He bought the dark blue suit—ridiculously priced because the clerk still couldn't appreciate it—and he went back going through the slim offerings. Everything else dulled in comparison. Jim figured he would be here until closing before he could find anything else.

But then he noticed the two men peeling away from the racks as soon as the man with the cane left. Jim frowned, tracking them as they stepped out, their stride quickening as soon as they were outside. He wavered from staying or following until he saw the telltale bulge tucked in the back waistband of one of them.

Crap.

Jim trailed behind the two men who were hanging back behind the man with the cane. He set his jaw as he saw them draw closer once they reached a more deserted spot crossing between two buildings and two more men approached from the opposite direction. He had a bad feeling about this. He started to trot over when they surrounded the older man.

"Hey, hey!" Jim called out, one arm up in a wave as he jogged over. He made a point to elbow through them to stand by the man's side. The other merely looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "I wanted to ask you something." Jim touched the man by the elbow to lead him back towards the corner. For some reason, he got an amused look from him.

"We were talking to him," one of the Neanderthals growled.

Jim looked at them up and down before he stepped in front of the man. "Didn't look like it was much of a conversation."

The first guy with his beady eyes and thin penciled in looking goatee scowled. "Hey, you better mind your manners."

Jim snorted. He patted One on the arm. "Oh relax, cupcake, it was a joke."

Neanderthal Two snarled, oddly fitting for his bulldog face. "Kinda rude to be interrupting."

Jim's shoulders lifted. "Kinda rude to be insulting his intelligence."

'Cupcake' as Jim decided he should be, scrubbed a hand across his shaven head and spat to the side. Gross. He stepped into Jim's personal space and jabbed a thumb on Jim's chest.

"Maybe you can't count, asshole, but there's four of us and one of you."

Jim smirked. He patted Cupcake on his chest like he was a big dog. "So get two more guys and then it'll be an even fight."

The four glowered.

Sam always did say he should think before he opened his damn mouth.

Cupcake's swing came out of the corner of his eye. Jim shoved the man with the cane behind him, ducked and rammed a fist into Cupcake's face. Avoiding a punch, he kicked Goon Number Three's kneecap. It didn't pop—he wasn't positioned right to apply the right amount of force—but Jim knew it should still hurt like a bitch. He grabbed the gun away from the man's waist band and in probably the stupidest move he'd ever done and threw it away clip and all. And then the brawl was seriously on as Goon Number Two tried to plow into him.

He heard flesh on flesh behind him. Jim's lips curled back, tightened his fists.

Meaty arms looped around his shoulders, jerking his arms back. Sour breath scalded the back of his neck. A body pressed too close to his back.

"I got him! I go—"

Heartbeat thundering in his ears, Jim snapped his head back, heard a _crack_ as skull met cartilage. His head spun from impact and the sidewalk in front of him lurched sickeningly.

Before the arms completely let go, Jim kicked both feet out hitting Number Three in the solar plexus. He was about to scream for Sam, when a fist caught him low in the back and drove him to his knees.

"Have to be a damn hero, huh?"

A fist snapped his head to the side. He made a grab for the next fist but ended up getting slammed into his side from behind crashing into pavement. He caught the gleam of a blade flicking open.

"Let's see if it says 'hero' on the inside too—urk!"

Fuzzily, Jim saw a thin black cane cutting across the air, catching Goon Number Three by the throat. Three gurgled, staggering back into Cupcake's prone body and dropping next to him like a sack of potatoes.

Jim tripped the fourth man as he felt the thug charge past him. He couldn't see out of the swelling of his eye now but he heard Goon Number Two squealing as the cane whistled in the air and landed with a _crunch_.

"You broke it. You 'ucking broke it," Two blubbered.

"You might want to leave before you break the other arm too," replied a mild voice.

Blearily, Jim watched the would-be muggers limp up to their feet. He tensed when one of them turned around but the cane landed on the sidewalk, its steel tip loud on the concrete. Cursing, groaning, they staggered off supporting each other.

Jim peered up at the man from the thrift store. The other eyed him with an unreadable expression.

"Most people would just call 911 or walk away."

Jim shrugged, hissed and tried to sit up straighter. Yeah, that hurt. He searched around. Great, he'd left the suit in the store. "Didn't think four against one was fair."

"Funny, I would have said the same thing for you." An unexpected hand extended. Jim blinked at it before grabbing it, letting the other man haul him up.

"You're pretty good with that cane there," Jim managed. He wiped his thumb at the corner of his bleeding mouth.

Amusement crinkled the eyes and the older man tipped his head, accepting the compliment. "You seem to be pretty good at pissing people off."

Jim grinned bloodily. "Hey, you have a closet of Devore. I wasn't going to lose that."

A small smile twitched.

Jim tried to smile again but he grimaced instead.

"You may need a doctor." Frowning, the older man examined Jim's face. "Or a hospital."

"No hospitals," Jim mumbled.

The cane tip snagged the hem of his pants, revealing the anklet. "I'm assuming that's the reason why."

Jim glanced over, but the other man only gazed back with mild curiosity.

"Uh…it probably wouldn't be a good idea," Jim admitted. He winced as he shifted weight from one foot to another. "Considering I just got out today."

Again, the only reaction the other gave was an eyebrow. Fuzzily, Jim wondered if the guy was related to McCoy.

"No," the other agreed easily, "It probably wouldn't be good. Where are you staying?" His frown darkened when Jim told him. "That won't do." He shook his head and pulled out his cell phone.

"What are you doing?" Jim asked warily.

"Number One," the other ignored Jim as he spoke into his phone. "Yes, yes, I know. I'm fine but I think I would like you to bring out the car to Barrows to pick me and a friend up."

Jim narrowed his eyes as he listened to the other give directions.

"I only have a two mile radius," Jim said when the other was done.

There was a brief smile. "That's fine."

"I was taught never to get into a car with strangers." Actually, he was taught how to jump out of a moving car. Same thing.

"Christopher Pike." The hand extended was freshly scraped across the knuckles.

Jim shook it. The firm grip impressed him. Pike stared at him expectantly. Jim chuckled awkwardly. Oh yeah.

"James Kirk." Jim paused. "Jim." He whistled when a Bentley rolled up to them, a lot sooner than he thought. "You live nearby?"

Pike offered another smile, his eyes twinkling as if he knew a secret. "Not far."

* * *

_Corner of West and Barrow Street, New York City_

Leonard trudged up the steps to the questionable hotel.

"Hey," he mumbled. "I'm here for Kirk, room eleven."

The ping pong paddle was absent today, but the clerk was now preoccupied with a magazine. He looked up. "Kirk? Oh yeah, yeah, ol' Snake Eyes. Nice Guy." He grunted as he twisted to the cubbyholes to grab a folded piece of paper. "Left ya a note."

"He left me a…note?"

_Dear Bones, _

_I have moved 1.6 miles_

_87 Riverside Dr._

_XOXO_

_Jim _

"What the hell?"

* * *

_87 Riverside Dr, New York City_

"You've got to be kidding me."

Leonard checked the address again. Then, he checked the street sign. But both times, it was still the same ornate, stone mansion.

It looked like it could just as easily be located in the highly coveted CPW with its marble brick facades, green fish scale roofing and copper cresting. He had to check once more to see if the word 'Trump' was branded anywhere.

People jogging by were giving him funny looks. Leonard tugged at his trench coat—standing here made him feel frumpy—and dashed across the street and up the steps, still feeling like he needed to check his car's GPS again. Sulu and Chekov were usually better with driving directions.

A maid—what the hell—opened the iron door by the second knock.

Leonard blinked at the older woman, who stared back at him with polite curiosity.

"I…I think I have the wrong address," Leonard fumbled. He smoothed out the note in his fist to show her. To his confusion, she merely smiled.

"You must be Leonard," a voice said from behind her. The maid stepped aside to let him in.

It was disconcerting to find himself at a loss for words again so soon. The last thing he expected was to see a man standing by the foot of a mahogany staircase, looking like he was accustomed to people saluting him. Leonard fought the urge to snap into attention. He was F.B.I., not a solder, damn it.

"I'm looking for Jim Kirk?"

There was a crooked smirk on the man's face as he nodded towards the top.

* * *

Leonard wasn't expecting the terrace.

Or the goddamn view of Manhattan sprawled out below. He stood there by the French doors and blinked.

"You're early."

Kirk peered from behind a copy of the _Wall Street Journal_. He grinned as he refolded the paper and set it on the table, revealing the maroon robe and matching pajamas he was wearing.

Leonard's mouth snapped shut. He gave himself a mental shake. "We're chasing a lead at the airport. We got a hit on Snow White."

"Snow White..." Kirk perked up, sitting straighter, "the phrase you decoded from a suspected Dutchman communiqué from Barcelona."

"I'm not even going to ask how you knew that." Leonard waved vaguely at the open-aired surroundings. "Uh…see you moved."

"Yeah, it's nicer than the other place, don't you think?

It grated to see Kirk smile so cheekily at him. Leonard looked away and squinted at the carved railing that stared across some structure Leonard was pretty sure was a stop on every Big Apple bus tour. There was even a pair of griffins climbing up on a stone block, glaring at the skyline.

"Yeah," Leonard muttered, "I don't remember the other place having a view." He narrowed his eyes at Kirk.

Kirk held up his hands in an 'I surrender' gesture. "I went to the thrift store like you suggested, and Chris—"

"We met."

"Was donating his dad's clothes. We hit it off—"

"You mean that literally?" Leonard interrupted. He pointed to Kirk's face. "'Cause I'm pretty sure when you left prison yesterday, you didn't have a busted lip."

Kirk winced. He cupped his jaw. "Some local color. New York City's still a dangerous kind of town."

"I'll say. I haven't seen this much color even in an art gallery." Leonard came over and tipped Kirk's chin up, turning him left and right. At Kirk's startled wide-eyed look, Leonard cleared his throat and dropped his hand.

"Some habits die hard," Kirk quipped. He grinned, inadvertently reopening the cut on his lower lip. "Besides they started it."

"You're an idiot." Leonard threw a linen napkin at him. Kirk dabbed it on the cut before resorting to sucking on his lower lip. Leonard shook his head. "Anything broken?"

An inscrutable smile flashed. "Depends on who you're asking. No. Just banged up a bit. But on them…" He shrugged.

"I don't want to know." Leonard did a quick check of his pupils, shading and unshading them. "Any nausea? Dizziness?" He waited for the negative response, before he stepped back. He folded his arms in front of him.

"The deal was for you to help us, not to become a genius repeat offender—"

"He was being mugged," Kirk said abruptly, all joviality gone. "With guns. What was I supposed to do? Besides you know how I feel about that."

"Yeah." Leonard just didn't know why. And Leonard had always suspected if he looked too far down that line he wouldn't like what he found. He shoved his hands into his coat and scrutinized Kirk. "Muggers?"

Kirk cast his eyes skyward. "Yeah?" He sucked on his cut lower lip. "Pretty common in New York, you know."

"Funny." Leonard waved at Kirk. "So this wasn't some friend—"

"Coming to tell me 'Welcome back'?" Kirk's mouth twisted but a wince aborted whatever face he was going to make. He gingerly prodded the discoloring on his chin. "No, didn't know them and they didn't know me."

Actually, Leonard wanted to ask if it was one of _Chris's_ friends_. _He studied Kirk. "So…you two hit it off, huh? He didn't try to…"

Kirk stared at him blankly. "Jesus, Bones. We just drank coffee and talked about history. The big crime heists of the 50's and 60's. It wasn't like that."

"Sorry. It's just…" How did you say that even though you were willing to leave someone in a crack den of a hotel you still didn't want someone taking advantage of them? Christ, this was getting complicated. "Sorry, So decent guy, huh?"

"Yeah. He had an extra guest room..." Kirk paused, his brow furrowing. "You said if I find a nice place for the same price, I should take it."

Leonard sighed. He had said that, hadn't he? He studied the terrace. He suppose he could always run a background check on the guy. "All this for seven hundred?" he asked skeptically. "That's it?"

Kirk appeared annoyed at the question but in typical Jim Kirk fashion, he shrugged it off. "I do have to help out around the place."

Leonard snorted. "Oh, sure, feed the dog—"

"Only when they're here. His friend drops them off from time to time."

Leonard's mouth tugged at the corners. "So he's got you dog-sitting?"

"Yeah, wash the Jag, watch his niece from time to time."

"Oh ho, he's got you babysitting, too?"

"A little life guard duty. That sort of thing." Kirk beamed and glanced behind him as a slim, tall redhead slinked up to them. She was a show stopper. Her green eyes twinkled at Leonard as she shrugged into a sheer, white robe that hung down to her calves over her swimsuit. She draped a slender, tanned arm around him from behind.

"Mm. Morning, Jim," she twittered by his ear.

Kirk tilted up his face, grinning brightly at her. "Morning, Gaila."

Gaila sauntered to a reclining chair and poured herself into it before pulling out a sketchbook from underneath it.

"Niece?" Leonard deadpanned.

Kirk waggled his eyebrows. "She's an art student."

"Unbelievable," Leonard muttered under his breath. Hopefully, Kirk wouldn't offer her tutoring lessons. He swatted towards Kirk's direction. "Go get dressed." He shook his head, glaring after Kirk as he padded inside. Kirk walked around like he'd been living here his whole life. The guy was infinitely adaptable.

"There's coffee, orange juice and these wonderful little chocolate muffins over on the side board there." Gaila called over giving him a sweet if somewhat amused glance.

"Thanks," Leonard said as he settled into one of the padded iron-wrought chairs. He squinted as the older gentleman he'd seen before was being dragged in by a young beagle on a leash.

"Gaila," the man grumbled as the dog barked excitedly when it sighted Leonard, "would you—slow down you mangy ill bred—get him inside before he forgets he can't fly?"

Gaila laughed. She caught the brown and white dog and pressed her face into its short fur.

"Sure thing, Uncle Chris. Come on, puppy," Gaila cooed as she hugged the dog to her, "let's get you away from Mr. Grumpy."

"I'm not grumpy," the man grumbled. "Damn thing peed on my _Recamier_. I'm sending Archer the bill." He pretended to shake his cane at the direction of the dog before turning back to Leonard. He stood there, his blue eyes intense and calculating before he smiled briefly and offered his hand.

"Christopher Pike."

Leonard accepted the hand. "Leonard McCoy."

Pike nodded before he eased himself into his seat. He raised an eyebrow at Leonard before pouring two cups of coffee out of a tall metallic kettle Leonard suspected _wasn't_ stainless steel. He leaned into the chair and watched Leonard take the first sip.

The burst of bitter yet smooth brew left no aftertaste on his tongue. It didn't need to be drowned in milk or sugar. Leonard took another sip, shaking his head as he set the cup down. "It's perfect," he conceded. "Even the freaking coffee's perfect."

Pike chuckled.

Leonard's jaw worked as he considered Pike. "That's not jewelry on his ankle, you know."

"I didn't think it was," Pike returned easily.

"You know what it means then?"

"He's a felon." Pike leaned forward into his cane. "But Agent McCoy," Pike whispered conspiratorially, his mouth twisted into a secretive curve, "then again so was my father."

And for the third time that morning, Leonard was speechless.

* * *

"Stop playing with the hat."

Jim eyed McCoy next to him, his fingers still running across the fedora. He smiled idly to himself as he studied the black hat, brushed off dust from the broad tie band and adjusted the roll of the brim. He twirled the fedora and flipped it onto his head. He showed it off to McCoy with a grin.

"You look ridiculous."

The smile dropped. Looked like McCoy was just as much fun as he had been the last time they'd ridden in a car together years ago. Course that time there had been handcuffs involved. "And _you_ should look at the road," Jim pointed out when McCoy frowned over to him for the third time.

"Aren't you a bit old for Halloween?"

Jim stared at McCoy, aghast. He thought the clueless clerk was bad. He indicated the slim cut of the dark navy jacket. "This is classic Rat Pack. This is a Devore."

"Oh." McCoy cast his eyes skyward. "Sorry, Dino."

Jim sniffed. He tucked his tie ends back into his jacket. He drummed his fingers on the armrest, going into a rendition of Bach's suite in C minor but that lost its charm before they even crossed the Williamsburg Bridge. Jim checked next to him but McCoy wasn't looking like he was in the mood for any conversation except to tell him his Miranda rights.

Sam usually let Jim rattle on, filling the car with theories, scenarios and all the 'Wouldn't it be funny if we…' chatter Jim could think of. It made sitting still bearable, made the cacophony in his brain quiet. Here though, the drone of the car engine, the fact McCoy didn't even like turning on the radio, made his skin itch.

After having gone through all the suites in the entire scale, Jim flipped down the sun visor. He flashed a smile at its tiny mirror. He tried another hat flip. He silently cheered when it landed on his head. Jim tilted the brim over his eyes.

A hand blindly reached out for the hat.

"Hey!"

"Would you stop with the hat?"

"Watch the road!" Jim yelped when McCoy swerved into the next lane without signaling. Jim grabbed onto his hat and pulled it to his lap. He gave McCoy a wary look. The agent stared hard at the road before him, his mouth pursed.

"You're upset!" Jim realized. "Look, you tell me which rule you think I broke and I will thumb it back to prison myself."

McCoy set his jaw. He curled and uncurled his hands on the steering wheel. He glanced over at Jim's face eyes narrowing again at the shiner. "What do you know about that guy really?" McCoy grumbled.

"_You_ said if I found a place—"

"I know what I said!" McCoy snapped. "He says his father's a felon. He's probably dangerous. And yes, okay, maybe it was a rat infested hell hole, and you probably deserve some place better which the government can't afford, but you weren't supposed to interpret it as to con your way into…into Buckingham palace!"

"I didn't con anyone," Jim said tersely. Jim slumped back into his seat. "He offered."

McCoy scoffed.

"I told him about the deal; told him the truth about the seven hundred and he said he had a spare guest room."

"The _truth_?" McCoy barked out a harsh laugh. He was on a roll and looked like he couldn't stop himself. Chris must have told McCoy the truth about Jim's altercation with the 'local color' that had started their friendship. "Well, that's a new one. You guys twist the truth around until they sound like fairy tales."

Jim ground his teeth. But as McCoy's words sank in, he glanced over.

"_You_ guys?"

Saying nothing, McCoy narrowed his eyes and kept his gaze resolutely on the highway.

"You know," Jim said carefully, "I always had the feeling you coming after me back then was personal. Three years is a pretty long time." Jim shrugged. "Flattering, sure, but bordering on obsessive."

"You're not that special," McCoy muttered. "It's taking me just as long to find the Dutchman."

Jim considered McCoy and the stiff shoulders. "True… you really don't like us, do you?"

"I'm a federal agent for white collar crimes. I'm not supposed to _like_ you."

"But you were finishing up your residency as a doctor before that," Jim recalled. "Going from a lab coat to a trench coat is a bit of a stretch." He absently brushed fingers along the upturned brim. Jim made a face."It couldn't be for the pay."

"That's all this sort of thing comes down to for you, huh?" McCoy grated out. "Money?"

Jim scowled. Money was good, needed, important for getting things, but sometimes, a lot of the time, it was more about the thrill of succeeding at something. Something nobody was supposed to be able to do. Eddy had understood. Sometimes.

"Seriously, Jim. You are too smart to think you can get away with this crap forever. Grow up already."

"What is your problem?" he snapped heatedly.

A muscle in McCoy's jaw flexed. "My problem is most people work hard, they do their job well and they don't expect a ten million dollar view of Manhattan with a young art student and espresso as a reward! And they know that if someone tries to hand it to them it's probably a bad idea."

Jim frowned at him. "Why?"

McCoy gave him a disbelieving stare but thankfully went back to his driving. "Why?" He took a deep breath. "Because nothing is free! If it looks like it's free then it's too good to be true and somewhere along the line someone is gonna wind up getting hurt. Some old lady gets offered a free ride at the airport by a nice young man and the next thing you know her luggage is stolen and she winds up with a concussion at St. Mary's which will give her headaches for the rest of her life. Some college co-ed is offered a boat load of money to pose for art pictures for some guy who sculpts, and she thinks this is way better than working grave yards at the coffee shop and the next thing she knows her naked body is all over the internet. Some old geezer offers you espresso and a penthouse dirt cheap and sure as I'm sitting here there's gonna be a catch!"

"I can find out where Chris buys his coffee—"

"It's not about the coffee!"

"Then what?" Jim exasperated. "Play by the rules and nobody will ever get hurt or ever die? Yeah, right." Tell that one to his dad. Nothing but a fiery death and a flag. Oh, and Frank as a replacement. Let's not forget that one.

McCoy gave him a look out of the corner of his eye misinterpreting his silence. "Christ, you really don't get it, do you?"

"What?" Jim repeated tightly.

"It's not about the coffee," McCoy sighed, deflating as if the conversation was physically tiring him. "This attitude of yours is what gets you into trouble. These something-for-nothing schemes are what got you locked up the last time."

Jim sank back into his seat and stared grimly out the windshield. He didn't get why McCoy was telling him all this. He didn't get why there were times McCoy acted like a man possessed or why he needed to constantly remind Jim why he went to prison. What did any of it matter to him? Jim turned to look at McCoy. The agent still had a pinched look on his face.

"I think it's some sort of Italian roast."

"It's not about the damn coffee!"

* * *

**Author's Note:** As you notice, that particular scene in the pilot was altered to fit Jim and Bones...:)


	4. Act 2 Part 2

**Act 2  
**

_International Arrivals, LaGuardia Airport, New York City_

The moment Uhura stepped in front of them, Leonard could feel Kirk taking notice.

"Who's that?"

Leonard smirked. "That's Uhura. Uhura was my probie."

"Uhura?"

Leonard nodded. "She was a probationary agent, now awaiting assignment. She does everything I don't, she's very good at her job, and she can do way better than you."

Kirk shot him an annoyed look. "I _know_ what a probie is. I'm asking what's Uhura's name?"

"Just Uhura," his probie said when they were within earshot.

Kirk smiled expectantly at her. "Uhura? Is that some F.B.I. custom to go with just a last name?"

Uhura rolled her eyes. "You must be James Kirk."

"You can call me Jim," Kirk offered helpfully. "And I should call you…"

"Uhura," Uhura replied primly. Her dark eyes flicked up to his head. "Nice hat."

"Don't get him started," Leonard warned. "What've we got?"

"His name's Tony Field. Customs flagged him coming in from Spain in response to our Snow White BOLO."

"Customs playing nice?" Leonard drawled.

Uhura smirked. "Ah, the usual chest pounding. He's in their custody, not ours."

Leonard shrugged. "Less paperwork for me. What's he carrying?"

Uhura's smile broadened. "Oh, you're gonna love this."

The suitcase packed full of old, thin books wasn't what he was expecting.

"_This_ is what triggered our alert?" Leonard said, his eyebrow arched high.

"Blancanieves y Los Siete Enanos?" Kirk read, his accent perfect. "Snow White and her Seven Little Men?"

"I'm impressed," Uhura commented.

"Really?" Kirk beamed.

"No." Uhura turned to Leonard. "He says he's a rare book dealer."

_Of course he is._ Leonard harrumphed. "Anything wrong with his paperwork?"

"Nope. He brought in the same books in the same quantity on three previous trips. He declared them each time."

Leonard gestured towards the suitcase. "All right. Are we wasting our time?"

Kirk scrutinized the books with an intensity that unnerved Leonard; everything else seemed to have disappeared for the con artist. Kirk's palms hovered over the suitcase's contents with a reverence before he pulled one book out. The pages rustled as Kirk thumbed through them, not reading but his blue eyes darkened as he examined them. To Leonard's amusement, Kirk even pressed his nose to the book to give it a whiff.

"They're not limited runs or special editions," Kirk murmured as he ran careful gloved hands over the binding. He chewed his lower lip. "Can't be worth much."

"So why go through all the trouble of flying them in?" Leonard wondered out loud.

"He sure was nervous for having all the right paperwork," Uhura remembered.

Leonard grunted. "I want to talk to him."

Uhura nodded. "I'll set it up." She checked her watch. "Hey boss, I'm grabbing some coffee before we do that. You want some?"

God, yes. Leonard nodded his head empathetically. "Yeah, anything but decaf."

"Uh, could you make that three?" Kirk spoke up.

"Not really," Uhura drawled as she gracefully turned on her heels. "The coffee shop's outside."

Leonard shook his head as he watched Kirk grinning after her. "I like her; she makes things exciting."

"You are way out of your league."

Kirk looked miffed at that. He shrugged seconds later. "Oh, harmless flirting." He winked at Leonard. "It's like a dance."

Leonard snorted. "No, there is no dance. You're not even on her dance card. No dancing for you." Leonard gave Kirk a little pat on the arm. "She already has a dance partner."

Kirk sighed. He pulled up his pants leg. "It's the jewelry, isn't it?" he said mournfully.

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Dino."

The narrow-faced bald man sitting by the table looked about ready to yell at someone but his hands shook slightly as he cleaned his glasses. His mouth pursed, his eyes slits on his face, Field acted all in part like an indignant businessman. He glared as Leonard approached him.

"Leonard McCoy, F.B.I." Leonard sat down across from Field.

"F.B.I.?" Field sniffed at the badge flashed to him. "Oh, you're really kicking it up a notch."

The urge to grab the weasel by the head and use it as a hammer was surprisingly overwhelming. "So," Leonard said in a deliberate voice, "you're a book dealer."

Field folded his arms in front of him. "Yes, well, as I told everyone here, repeatedly, my business is the import and sale of rare books."

Leonard shrugged. "How rare can they be? You've got six hundred of them."

"Like me to go the crime lab, help you dust for fingerprints?" Field jeered.

Leonard smiled tightly. "I get it. 'Cause I'm telling you how to do your job."

Field grunted.

"So...Snow White. In Spanish."

Field sneered. "Snow White was not created by Disney, detective. There are a few stories the predate Steamboat Willie."

"I'm a federal agent, not a historian," Leonard corrected him with a tight smile, "By the way, you mean the folklore about the virginally pure queen? Like Alexander Pushkin's 'Tale of the White Princess and the Seven Knights.' Is that what you mean?" Leonard smirked at the wide-eyed gape Field gave him. Leonard leaned in and stared hard at Field.

"What are the books for?" Leonard asked low.

Field, for the first time, couldn't meet his eye.

"Hey!" Leonard slapped his hand to the table and enjoyed some satisfaction when Field jumped.

The dealer nervously bit his lower lip. He opened his mouth when the door opened behind them.

"I'd appreciate if you didn't talk to my client." The newcomer filled the doorway with his tall frame. There was nothing friendly about the smile the lawyer gave him. "You know. Constitution and all."

Leonard pulled an equally welcoming smile to the lawyer one that dripped Southern Comfort. "Were y'all chasing the ambulance or did your sugar daddy give you a ride?" Leonard rose to his feet and circled the designer suit, he eyed it the way he'd seen Jim Kirk do to his own wash and wear Macy's version. "Huh," he murmured, "I'm supposin' not. Those wrinkles are evidence you must've thumbed it."

Unfazed, the lawyer merely smirked back at him. "Thank you, agent," he said in a syrupy voice before he closed the door to Leonard's face.

* * *

Kirk gave Leonard a sympathetic look from his seat as he took a sip of coffee.

"Scary federal agent face didn't work on the bookseller, huh?"

Leonard gnashed his teeth. "I almost had him." He glowered at the cup Kirk held. "Is that mine?"

Kirk wordlessly handed it over.

Leonard took a long guzzle rather than answering. He glanced over to Uhura. "Where's that Customs Inspector?"

Uhura bade the Inspector to come over. "Jim was right, the books aren't worth much. You can pick them up for a few dollars on Ebay."

Leonard scowled at the officer as he approached. "Hey," he barked as the inspector came up to them, "why didn't you tell me that guy lawyered up? The second he makes that call, I can't talk to him."

The Customs Inspector gave him a baffled frown. "He didn't call anybody."

"Then how did his lawyer know that he—" Shit. Leonard spun around, his cup crashing to the floor when he bolted. He could sense the officer, Uhura and Kirk behind him and he was about to warn Kirk back but he was already at the door. He flattened against one side, his arm out to pin Kirk back. Uhura immediately positioned herself on the other side with the inspector.

"One," Leonard mouthed as he balanced his gun in his grip. Uhura nodded curtly as she raised her weapon.

Two. Kirk strained against his arm—curiosity, stupidity, who knew—driven to edge closer despite Leonard nudging him back to safety.

Three.

Pivoting around, Leonard kicked the center of the airport security door, sending it swinging open. His gun was up, pointed at chest level as Uhura and the Customs Inspector rushed in.

"Boss!" Uhura called out sharply.

Kirk exhaled sharply behind them.

"Damn it!" Leonard swore as soon as he spotted Field. He holstered his gun and crouched by the body. He neatly avoided the hypodermic needle jutting out of the side of Field's neck and checked for a pulse.

"I need paramedics in here now!" the Inspector bellowed into his radio.

Kirk dropped to his knees beside him. "I know CPR. I can help."

Leonard closed his eyes briefly. "Don't bother. He's dead, Jim." He got to his feet and growled.

"Nobody frisked the lawyer?"

* * *

There were times Jim hated the acuity of his memory.

Field's vacant eyes stayed with him as he circled the suitcase. He chewed on his lower lip and tried not to think about the fact that the suitcase was probably the last thing Field had touched.

It's not like he'd never seen a dead body before. The opposite, in fact. He hadn't understood it when he was thirteen and his mom had sent him and Sam to live with relatives. He still didn't understand it now.

"Got a dead book dealer, a killer lawyer and a bunch of worthless novels. All right, come on, as a reformed professional counterfeiter, what is the Dutchman's interest in these?"

Jim wondered if the killer was the last thing Field saw. Was that what every murder victim saw with their dying breath? Was Kodos' face the last thing his aunt and uncle saw when they were forced to kneel on bloody straw in front of the cameras and ATF—

"Hey."

Blinking, the ghost of Texan trees morphed into stark white walls and overly lit spaces. Jim found himself inches from McCoy's face. The agent's brow furrowed, his eyes studying Jim. His mouth crinkled, understanding lightening his gaze. It was a bit unnerving.

"Okay?" McCoy asked in a low, gruff tone.

Jim nodded quickly. He averted his eyes to the books. He was grateful his hands were steady as he held one. He scanned the front page and the grain.

"Published in 1944 in Madrid." Jim flipped through the book. The paper held a sweet, wet pulpy smell that almost made him smile. The texture was rough, rippled of spun fibers, braided together into a pattern unique to its own. Jim loved the sensation of ink raising paper, drawing beauty in what was otherwise ordinary, discounted, disregarded. Each paper had its own scent, its own special—wait.

"This is what he's after," Jim announced.

Jim grabbed a ruler and slid it carefully under the blank cover sheet of the book.

"The top sheet?" Uhura said doubtfully.

Jim nodded. His heart pounded as his mind raced. First piece of the puzzle. He just needed a little more to make a picture. "More than that." He held up the sheet. "This is a piece of 1944 Spanish press parchment."

McCoy hemmed thoughtfully. "That's what he wanted. Good. This is good."

"He's going to counterfeit something that was originally printed on paper like that," Uhura guessed.

Jim slid a look at McCoy grinning. "That's what I would do."

McCoy rubbed a knuckle under his chin, too distracted to do anything more than scowl half-heartedly at Jim. "Field made three prior shipments with these."

"Two blank pages a book is six hundred sheets," Jim calculated.

McCoy grunted. "Too many for paintings."

"Not enough for currency," Uhura added.

McCoy's eyes zeroed in on Field's jacket, the one he'd left folded on the table. "I bet our dead book dealer knew." he muttered as he rifled through the wallet. Jim stared at the coat, his stomach churning, until McCoy, for whatever reason, stepped in front of him. The agent gave a soft "Ah ha" and pulled out a card. "This is where he went, the day before he left for Spain."

"The National Archives," Jim read over McCoy's shoulder. He brightened. "I know this place. They have a great collection of Gregorian chant books right by the window…" Jim smiled cheekily at the twin glowers shone his way. "Or so I heard."

"So he's been to the Archives," Uhura concluded, "But was that enough to kill him for it?"

"Too bad we can't ask Field," Jim muttered, sobering. He glanced over at the coat again.

"But we _can_ ask his lawyer," McCoy said thoughtfully. He quirked an eyebrow at Uhura. "How do you suppose the guy got here?"

* * *

_Fashion District, New York City _

"I think I like the car better."

Kirk grumbled as he sat on the stool and yawned behind Sulu and Chekov. Kirk gave the innards of their utility van a look of disgust. "Why does it smell like cabbage? Does anyone ever clean in here?"

"Not since the Carter administration," Sulu muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he flicked a Twinkie wrapper off the shelf in front of him.

"Are you volunteering?" Leonard added as he squinted at the images Chekov was fast forwarding on his screen. He grimaced. Kid wasn't even blinking. "I think there's a mop and bucket in here somewhere."

"I think you need a flame thrower, not a mop," Kirk grumbled.

"That's him," Chekov declared as he leaned back from his hunched position over his computer. He stretched his arms above his head. "His car. Definitely." He waved towards all the airport footage he's been searching for over an hour. "That is him getting out and getting in the vehicle."

"Yeah," Kirk murmured. Leonard noted the frown as Kirk stared intently at the screen. "Definitely the man who killed Field."

"License plate leads back to here," Sulu reported as he hung up his phone. "Uhura says the plates are registered to an Aye…Ayel Collins. He has an office here: an auditing firm."

Leonard squinted at the surveillance video of the building across from them. It was a plain, box shaped old factory, converted to luxury offices back in the real estate boon. He grimaced at the loud colored vertical banners draped from top to bottom on every corner announcing there were spaces still available. It was like that with most of the renovated high ceiling buildings here: sweat shops reincarnated into prime real estate at thousands of dollars a square foot.

"Attorney and an auditor," Leonard remarked. "A Renaissance man."

"I doubt he gets a lot of business here crunching numbers," Kirk murmured as he squinted at the screen. He tilted his head up at Leonard. "What now?"

"Now," Leonard decided as he levered out of his chair and motioned Sulu to follow. Together, they checked their weapons and clips. "Sulu and I are going to pay our attorney a visit." He caught Kirk making a face when he tucked his Sig into his shoulder holster. He his jacket closed. "Chekov, you monitor the situation. Kirk…" Leonard paused at the expectant look. "Stay in the van."

"_Seriously_?" Kirk's outraged yelp was cut off when Leonard slammed the doors as soon as he hopped out.

* * *

Of _course_ he ran.

As soon as Leonard stepped off the third floor and Collins sighted them; the bastard ran.

Why? Why did they always run?

The exit door almost closed on Sulu's fingers when he took off after Collins. Leonard shouldered past the few idiots left gaping after them as he ducked into the stairway after his junior agent.

"He's going for the roof!" Sulu shouted as he heard Collins picking up speed, never pausing at each level. For the love of mint juleps, did the guy run marathons?

"Chekov, get NYPD!" Leonard panted into his radio, cursing Sulu for thinking he was a goddamn greyhound in some rabbit race, taking steps two at a time and narrowly falling flat on his face a few times. "Send a couple of uniforms to cordon off the block!"

_"They're on their way."_

Collins didn't seem impressed with the "Stop! Federal agent!" on his heels. He was already halfway across the rooftop by the time they reached the top. Tall, athletic and barely winded, Collins leapt easily over a layering of pipes before twisting around to fire.

"Watch it!" Leonard grabbed Sulu by the scuff of the neck as soon as he spotted the gun. "Down!" was the only warning he gave and yanked hard. They dove behind the boxy HVAC unit just as Collins fired wildly in their direction.

Sulu rolled to crouch behind the short walls that bordered the elevator shaft across from Leonard. He nodded, too winded to respond when Leonard pointed two fingers towards Collins.

Counting in his head, Leonard rose up, high enough to see over the unit. He spotted Collins hiding behind the network of pipes and the skylight.

The sharp acrid stench of burnt gunpowder filled his nostrils as he fired two shots to Collins's left, forcing him to zip to the right, only to jerk back when Sulu fired two shots to skip inches from his foot.

"Stop or we'll shoot, Collins!" Leonard shouted. He swore and dropped to his haunches when Collins's reply consisted of three short gun bursts. He covered his head with both his hands as the vent splintered above him.

"I said or _we'll_ shoot, damn it!"

Sulu jumped up, fired two more rounds to draw his fire but ended up throwing himself to the ground next to his spent casings.

Leonard muttered as he checked his clip. He slid it back in, readjusted his grip and sucked in his breath. Steeling himself, he aimed his gun above his head but before he could fire, a rally of bullets shot up across his cover. One punched through by his ear. Leonard rolled to slam his back against a chimney vent.

_iOh, that's much better/i_, Leonard thought bitterly as he tried to look around it to pinpoint Collins's position but he was too well-placed with the water pipes around him: thick insulated metal barriers that wrapped around him like a Stonehenge.

"We're too exposed!" Sulu called out, jerking back, barely missing getting shot in the neck.

Chekov babbled in his earpiece. The agent probably wasn't really babbling but Leonard's ears were too busy being deafened by the shrill metal tearing sounds of bullets skidding and poking holes in the only shelter he had.

_Click._

"He's out," Sulu whispered. Before Leonard could respond, call him an idiot, Sulu was off again, after Collins.

"Sulu! Sulu, wait for—idiot!" Leonard grated out, getting to his feet and giving chase. He hadn't run this much since goddamn track in high school. He vaulted easily over a set of pipes running parallel to the roof. He jumped over the next pair, his legs burning. Damn, he was getting too old for this shit. But Leonard gnashed his teeth, determined to follow Sulu because when he catches his junior agent, he was going to kill him.

But then, they jumped off the roof.

"Jesus!" Leonard skidded. His arms wind milled back, halting that natural momentum to lean forward and eight stories below. He glowered at Collins, at Sulu, who didn't hesitate leaping off the roof. Leonard watched, choked until he saw Sulu landing on the shorter building in a neat tuck and roll that got him back on his feet again. The agent glanced over his shoulder, agape, his face all "Holy shit" as if he only now realized what he had done.

"Chekov," Leonard snapped into his radio. His radio had been suspiciously quiet. "Corner him on 312. Sulu's on 314's roof. I'm going down to block off 314's exit."

_"We're on our way,"_ Chekov reported breathlessly.

"Wait a minute. What do you mean '_we'_?"

* * *

Bones was going to put him back in jail.

Jim had just enough time to think it even as he grabbed Chekov by the elbow.

"We can head him off on 312," Jim urged. He doubted Collins would stay on the same building for long. He wouldn't.

Chekov was about to protest when the radio crackled with clear high piercing spikes of sound.

_"Shots fired! Shots fired!"_ Sulu was shouting into his radio.

Chekov swore under his breath, pulled out his gun from his waistband. "We need to request backup but they'll be too long. You stay in the—Kirk, _wait_!"

Later on, Jim would claim he hadn't heard Chekov as he jumped out of the van and raced for 312. He would swear that no, he didn't remember he didn't have a gun and no, he wasn't trying to take Collins down by himself.

But during the ride back into the city, all Jim could think about was how empty Field's eyes looked, how the dealer must had figured delivering stacks of old paper was better than bank robbery or some other score that needed blood spilled before purse strings were cut open. No, Field figured he could deliver Snow White like the hunter in the forest without a drop of blood. Field didn't expect to be killed. Murdered. No one ever did.

Bones was all about the rules and keeping things safe. He didn't understand stuff like this. How you could get caught by surprise when some bastard didn't play by the rules. And then you were dead. Just like Field.

Jim dashed up the stairs, foregoing the elevator. He took the steps two at a time easily and he reached the roof barely winded.

No one was firing. Collins would have run out of bullets by now. He scanned the area. Calculating where he would head if he were a scum ball murdering roof climber. Okay, find cover and when Collins predictably came over to 312's roof, Jim could tackle him easily.

"Collins, freeze!"

It was a stupid command. Jim eyed the five foot gap between 312 and 314. Collins ran with the clear intention of not staying put. Telling the man to freeze after he was already running, jumping off a roof was sort of like—

_Pachinko._

Jim blinked and time sped up just in time to see a shadow peel away from the water tower to his left. There was a glint in the fading sun, a shape pointed at Sulu as he landed on 314, gaining on Collins—

"Gun!" Jim hollered. Sulu jerked and dove for cover.

The shadowy mass whipped around towards Jim instead.

_Oh shit._

Jim flung himself down, getting down just as a bullet missed his head. He scanned frantically but aside from where the second gunman was hiding; the only other safety was 314's HVAC-studded surface.

Sulu fired across and the gunman ducked. Jim edged out of his hiding place. He yelped when wood splintered by his face. Slivers of pain flashed across his cheek and throat.

Across the building, Sulu responded but the distance threw off his accuracy. The gunman jerked back to avoid Sulu's volley. Collins was nowhere in sight. Unfortunately, the gunman was still there and bent on disintegrating Jim's cover. Not good. Not good. Jim drew in his breath and ran for the roof edge. His feet pushed off, he threw his torso forward.

He leapt.

His arms reached, cutting the air like oars, propelling him towards the ledge. His feet automatically flexed, prepared for the landing…

He missed.

Jim slammed into the ledge, his ribs impacting stone and emptying the air out of his lungs in a single violent whoosh. Jim gasped and he found himself sliding backwards to the drop he could feel yawning under him. His fingers scrambled for purchase on the brick, but it wasn't enough and he lost another inch—

"Gotcha." Sulu's hand whipped out and latched onto one of his wrists, halting his slide. The young agent grinned down at him. "Just—"

Collins tackled him from behind.

"Sulu!"

Sulu shouted—or maybe it was Jim—and the agent sailed over Jim's head. Suddenly, it was _iJim/i_ grabbing onto Sulu's hand.

"Hold on," Jim gritted out. He was close enough to hear Chekov shouting coming from the radio strapped to Sulu's belt. He pulled but the weight pulled back harder. Jim's neck strained as his shoulders bore the agony of both their bodies tugged lower by gravity.

Silent, Sulu struggled scrabbling for footholds. He only ended up skidding on the slick latex banners pinned to the faces of the building and straining Jim's arm out of its socket.

Collins shadow fell across him. A bolt of pain ignited when Collins smashed the handle of his gun over Jim's fingers. Jim grunted and dug his fingers into gritty block. Collins swung again. He ground out a cry. Sulu shouted, Chekov was screaming something in the radio.

They fell.

In one desperate reach, Jim snagged the banner. His fingers skidded, burning as they slipped over the slick surface until he grabbed enough material to stop their fall with a jerk.

"Shit," Sulu gasped, his hands now doubled up tight around Jim's. He wrapped his arms around Jim's middle, lacing his fingers together. "Oh shit, that's a long way down."

Jim agreed, panting and was about to suggest they swing over to the fire escape teasing the heels of their feet when the banner began to tear.

* * *

When Leonard saw Kirk fall, his heart slammed into his ribs. Racing forward, he cursed at himself. Why had he taken the pavement? Why hadn't he gone up to the other roof himself? And what the hell had he been thinking to bring the kid along?

Chekov came out of nowhere. "I know what to do! Follow me!" or something of that nature as he sped past Leonard and disappeared around the corner of the building Sulu and Kirk dangled from.

"Under them!" Chekov was saying when Leonard caught up. He tugged one of the wheeled dumpsters parked by a futon storefront that had the yellow 'Closed by US Marshals' plastered all over its cracked windows. Leonard jumped in to tug at the container when he realized it was filled of yellowed Styrofoam packing peanuts.

Inside, he knew there was no way this could be enough. It was like diving into a glass of water. But he saw the banner tearing; Sulu and Kirk jerking closer and closer toward the ground. They were no longer at the top but still high enough to kill them. A glass of water was better than nothing.

"What you 'oing with my 'umpster?" Leonard heard as a shopkeeper stumbled out of the store. A dog was barking from within.

"Federal agent!" Leonard snapped as he pulled.

"You are supposed to keep your dog leashed," Chekov added breathlessly as he pushed.

Whatever the owner had to say was lost in the loud rattling of rusty wheels over pavement.

"Not good," Chekov breathed, "That does not look good."

Leonard didn't want to look up but he'd constantly been accused of being a glutton for punishment. So he looked up. And swore.

The banner was completely halved now and ripping fast and only kept together by its thick border. Twenty, fifteen, ten feet.

"Hold on!" Chekov hollered as he grunted, his face red from the strain as they moved the dumpster.

"_Hurry_!" Sulu's far away voice was loud enough to convey the exasperation.

Leonard's thighs burned with the effort. He puffed, swore he would never step into that overpriced green logo java crack den again and tugged the bin until Chekov hollered it was good.

"Jump!" Chekov shouted up through cupped hands.

"_What_?" Leonard couldn't tell if it was Sulu or Kirk.

"The bin is filled with—it's fine!"

Leonard grimaced when he heard an expletive. Definitely Sulu. It didn't look like it would hold until the firemen got there.

The banner broke completely.

With wordless shouts the two fell, partially cloaked by the shorn off advert and with a cloud of packing peanuts, and a large _iclang/i_, they landed dead center of the dumpster.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Somewhere, the store owner was still cursing them out for stealing his bin.

"See?" Chekov said breathlessly as he peered into the bin. "You could have jumped."

Inside, Sulu slapped a piece of the banner at his head. Chekov staggered back.

Leonard blew out slowly. He hung over the bin, his head spinning and debated how much of an ass would he be if he threw up right now. Christ. He glared at Sulu and Kirk covered in clingy Styrofoam. One of them had the good sense to look sheepish, the other was Kirk.

Sulu ran a hand through his hair, although it appeared more like he was checking if his head was still attached. He glanced over at Kirk trying to sit up.

Kirk clamored to his knees and clutched the edge of the bin. He panted, grimacing as he gingerly felt the cuts on his face. He smiled brightly up at Leonard.

"You look like a goddamn poodle," Leonard told him.

Kirk flicked a peanut at him.

* * *

"That should do it," the paramedic told Jim as he finished splinting the three reddened fingers. "You sure you don't want us to take you in for X-rays?"

Jim studied the bandages. This was going to be impractical. He couldn't hold even a pencil like this. Luckily, he was ambidextrous. "They're not broken," he said as he tried moving his middle finger.

"Well, we can take you to St. Vincent's to be sure—"

"I'm sure," Jim interrupted in a firm voice. It wasn't easy to forget the sensation of bones grinding against each other. "They're not broken."

The paramedic looked doubtful but at Jim's resolve, wandered off to tend to Sulu seated by the dumpster. The agent was still gaping up at the building with a mix of awe and nausea.

"What are you a doctor now instead of a thief?"

Jim lifted his heavy head to look at McCoy out of the corner of his eyes. "What?"

"Self-diagnosing?" McCoy leaned against one of the ambulance's doors, his hands in his pockets. Keen eyes swept across Jim. "Or is it field experience?"

Averting his gaze, Jim watched the black and white patrol cars clustered around the street corner, officers dragging blue wooden barriers to close off the avenue.

"Did you catch him?" Jim asked wearily.

"We will." The agent sounded just as tired. McCoy's shadow eclipsed his. "Seriously, you doing all right there?"

Jim toed the asphalt. He picked a peanut off his trousers.

"Any dizziness? Nausea? Trouble breathing?"

Jim tilted his head up to McCoy. "Is this where you whip out the stethoscope you keep in your pocket?"

"Sorry," Bones dryly replied, "I left it in my other suit."

Jim leaned his head on the ambulance door and exhaled. His head pounded still from the fall and his heart raced as if he was still running, but there was also a cold lump in his gut when he realized it was pretty much for nothing. Field's killer got away.

"This was different. That was a crazy thing you did back there." McCoy sounded oddly not angry, more curious. "You know you probably saved Sulu's life."

Jim shrugged.

"He was trying to save mine."

"So this was like a returning the favor kind of thing?"

Jim grunted. "Sure."

"Hey."

Jim reluctantly looked up. McCoy frowned mildly down at him. "Running in to help, not a great idea, but better than a lot of crazy ones you've had."

Sighing, Jim stared out at the chaos around them.

"I may play outside your rules, but I never hurt anyone," Jim finally said. He studied his bandaged hand and flexed it cautiously. He scowled at his bindings. How was he supposed to hold a lockpick like this?

"What?"

"The…" Jim smirked faintly, "the cons I've _allegedly_ run. Companies, people who've supposedly lost their money…they could afford it. I would bet it's wounded pride more than any other reason they even report it to you guys. We—I never set out to hurt anyone."

"That you know of," McCoy muttered.

Jim darted a questioning look at him. Reluctantly, McCoy shook his head. He nodded towards Jim's hand.

"You sure you don't want me to look at that?"

Jim was oddly touched at the wrinkle forming between McCoy's eyes. "No. I would know—"

"Yeah, yeah. I heard you would know if they were broken. Got it." Bones fidgeted, looking like he wanted to ask more, but instead he checked his watch. "Feel up to one more stop then?"

Jim tilted his head up at McCoy.

"National Archives?"

Jim grinned, his hand all but forgotten. "Can we check out the Greg—"

McCoy grunted in mock disgust and walked away.

"Aw, I'll buy you a souvenir there, Bones!" Jim snickered when McCoy spun around and glowered at him before stalking off. Jim chuckled to himself.

"You okay?"

Jim smiled up at Sulu. He showed his hand. "Still attached." Jim nodded to the cuts on the other's jaw. "You?"

Sulu's shoulders rose and fell. He eased himself down onto the step next to Jim. "Head's still attached. Ringing like a gong, but definitely still there."

The two sat quietly until Sulu took a deep breath.

"Listen, so ah…"

Surprised, Jim scratched his jaw with a finger. "No problem."

Sulu huffed. "Good."

"How did you know?"

Jim lifted his eyes and found Chekov studying him intently. "What?"

The young agent pointed at the building they were rescued from. "The banner. How did you know it would hold you and Sulu?"

Jim shrugged. "Banner's made of PVC vinyl, right? Look up the distribution strength some time."

"Oh." Chekov nodded, his eyes wide. "You have done this before? For one of heists? Did it work?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim caught Sulu covering his face with a hand. Jim shrugged and grinned.

Sulu swore into his hands.

Chekov walked away impressed. Jim rolled his eyes and rested his elbows on his knees as he sat on the ambulance's step up. He watched the officers milling about and thought how weird it was to just be quietly sitting there. No running, no hiding, no mile a minute talking to get them out of some scrape. Sam would find the irony hilarious.

Bones kept checking over, his face thoughtful, all squinty eyed like Jim was some Picasso he couldn't tell was a forgery or not. He could practically see the worry line. Fake or real? Fake or real? He scowled when Jim waved jauntily at him and he stomped off to probably do F.B.I. things.

Weary, Jim massaged the side of his head. He hated puzzles he couldn't decipher and Field's death and a stack of old parchment paper was almost as confusing as McCoy's mercurial attitude towards him. There were times McCoy acted like he wanted to throw Jim back in jail. There were times he looked like he regretted doing it in the first place. And then he asked to see if his fingers were broken. What the hell?

"You just grabbed the first thing you could reach, didn't you?" Sulu said all of the sudden.

Jim blew out sharply. He canted his head and grinned at Sulu.

Sulu snorted in disbelief and lightly slapped Jim's shoulder with the back of his hand, smirking.


	5. Act 3

**Act 3**

_National Archives, Midtown, New York_

"I do remember him," Vincent Lombardi confirmed after Leonard showed him a photo of Tony Field. He led the way into the environmentally controlled vaults. Their shoes echoed against the marble in the empty hallways as they followed. Leonard nudged Kirk along; he kept pausing at displays. Probably casing the place for future reference. Kirk raised an eyebrow at him, rolled his eyes as if he knew Leonard's suspicions and followed Lombardi. He made a show of putting his hands in his pockets.

"He came by several months ago and then again last week." Carefully, Lombardi opened a box and balanced a piece of parchment with both hands. "This is what he came to see." Gingerly, he set it on the table.

"The Spanish Victory Bond," the curator sighed as he gazed at it. "He took several photographs of it, said he was going to write a book." Lombardi shook his head sadly. "It's a shame he's dead. This bond does have a fascinating history."

Leonard watched as Kirk touched it with one careful finger. Kirk absently shook his hand in the air before reaching for the artifact. Damn fool insisted he didn't need the bandages; he protested he wouldn't be able to pull gloves over them.

After a close study, Kirk looked up with wonder. "It's a Goya."

"Yes. Beautiful, isn't it?" Lombardi clasped his hands together and gave it an indulgent smile.

Leonard took out the blank parchment from one of the books and laid it over the bond. They overlapped completely.

"A perfect fit." Leonard grinned at Kirk. "You're starting to earn your seven hundred a month."

Kirk smirked. He thought of something and looked back at the curator. "You said it had a fascinating history."

Lombardi nodded. "Quite. It was issued during the war."

"1944."

The curator looked pleased at the answer. "Yes, the U.S. issued the bonds to support the Spanish underground in their battle against the Axis." Lombardi gave the parchment a wistful look. "Very few have ever been redeemed."

Kirk pressed closer to the document. Leonard could have sworn he saw Kirk take a sniff.

Lombardi took a deep breath, his voice smoother as he slipped into the tour guide vernacular. "There's speculation that entire boxes were captured and many are still hidden away in the caves of Altamira."

Leonard's eyebrows rose. "Whole boxes of these?"

Lombardi stared into nothing with a dreamy expression on his ruddy face. "Yes. Boy, that would be something, wouldn't it? This is the only surviving copy."

"Except it's a forgery," Kirk said all of the sudden.

Leonard could almost see the _pop_ above Lombardi's head as he started. "W-what?" He shook his head. "No, that's not possible."

Leonard frowned at Kirk. He felt sorry for the stuttering curator. "What are you talking about?"

Kirk looked wide-eyed and puzzled enough at their disbelief that Leonard knew it wasn't a scam. "It's the ink." Kirk carefully brushed a gloved finger down the elaborate border, lifting it up to show the greenish smudge. "This is an iron-gal dye mixed to match the period colors. But it hasn't dried yet." He lifted the parchment by a corner to show them. "You can still smell the gum arabic."

Leonard only detected a sweet, metallic tang but apparently it was enough that Lombardi blanched. Leonard took a step closer and shot Kirk a warning look which the kid missed completely.

"No, no, no," Lombardi almost whimpered. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "T-this has been here since 1952."

Kirk's voice dropped to a patient tone one would use with a child. "It's been here less than a week."

Leonard barely caught Lombardi when he fainted. Kirk gave him a blank "What?" at Leonard's glower.

* * *

_F.B.I., Lower Manhattan_

The roast pork Lo Mein tasted like chicken.

Leonard stuck his chopsticks back into the container and forked a piece of the scallion pancake out of the foam takeout container instead. He crammed a piece in his mouth, offered the rest to the others. Kirk made a face and shook his head. Fine, more cholesterol saturated goodness for him. It was too late at night to worry about his arteries.

"Okay, so Field makes two trips." Leonard held up two fingers. "First time he takes a picture of the bond. The second time he steals the original and replaces it with this copy. Can we confirm that?"

Sulu took a bite of his egg roll before using it to point at his laptop screen. "The timed ink identification test puts the age of the bond at approximately six days."

"That coincides with Field's visit." Chekov wiped his fingers clean of his Sweet and Sour pork before he typed into his laptop. "He must have made the switch last week."

"I already told you that," Kirk pointed out. At Leonard's glare, he scooped up more plain fried rice expertly with his chopsticks.

"We're pulling surveillance video to back it up," Uhura said while she finished sipping her soup.

"Good." Leonard considered everyone before he stared out the broad window of the conference room, surprised it was dark already. "So, the question is why go through the trouble of making a really nice forgery, on the right kind of paper just to stick it back in the archives?"

The blank looks he got in return made him lose his appetite. Leonard sighed and pushed his food away.

Kirk spoke up. "Is the bond still negotiable?"

"It's a zero option, so it never expires." Leonard paused. "What's it worth?"

Sulu pressed his lips together. "Thousand dollar face value, drawing nine percent interest…"

"Compounded for sixty-four years," Uhura added. She bent over a calculator with Sulu.

"Two hundred forty-eight thousand dollars," Kirk and Chekov chimed together. They both started and grinned at each other.

Sulu tossed his calculator down as he rolled his gaze towards the ceiling. "What they said."

Leonard grunted. "Quarter of a million, not chump change."

"And there are six hundred sheets out there," Chekov reminded.

Kirk beamed when everyone turned to him expectantly. "One hundred fifty million." Kirk shrugged. "Give or take."

"He'd be a rich man if he could pass them off, but that still doesn't tell us why he would take out the real bond and put in a forgery," Leonard mused.

"I think it does," Kirk said slowly. "What if he claimed he found boxes of the original bonds?"

Leonard, catching on, sat up in his seat. "Dragged them out of the caves in Spain."

"And how would they be authenticated?" Kirk coaxed.

"They'd be taken to the archives and compared to the original," Leonard answered, picking up speed.

"Which he's already switched out with one of his own copies," Kirk finished.

"They'd match," Chekov breathed.

Leonard caught Sulu leaning towards Uhura and whispering something. She nodded and snickered. Luckily, they schooled chastened expressions when he shot them both a glare.

Leonard nodded at Kirk, unable to hold back the smile on his face. "Oh, this is good. This is really good. All right, let's think about this."

His cell phone buzzed and moved across the table.

Uhura checked. Her face softened. She picked up his phone and handed it to him.

"Guess who?"

Leonard knew that was a broad grin on his face when he took the cell. "After I take this call," Leonard added before flipping it open. "Hey."

_"Still catching bad guys, Dad?"_

_

* * *

_

Jim tracked Bones as he walked out of the conference room, steering for his office next door.

"His daughter," Sulu explained as he reached over to snag a piece of scallion pancake.

"Oh." Jim poked at his fried rice. Somehow, McCoy knew to order it without MSG. Thank God. Sometimes Sam forgot. Swollen throat, choking, fevers was _so_ not his idea of a fun night. He glanced at the door, his brow furrowing. The soft smile Bones wore was startling; he pretty much thought all the guy knew were scowls.

Behind him, Uhura's cell rang. Jim watched with interest when she flipped open her phone then escaped to the far corner to talk, her voice dropping to a low tone.

Jim's eyebrows knitted at what he could hear: polite lilts, tone too formal to be friendly, yet phrases like 'dinner would be great' and 'your turn to cook' confused the hell out of him. He checked with Chekov and Sulu, who were both contemplating the last egg roll.

"Who's that?" Jim asked casually as he poked his egg roll towards them.

Sulu was giving Jim's deep fried appetizer a wistful look, debating whether it would be rude to take Jim's share when Chekov reached over and took it.

"Hey!" Sulu glared at him before grabbing the one left in the foam takeout box. Muttering under his breath, Sulu chomped its top off before drowning the rest in hot chili sauce.

"Boyfriend," Chekov said, his mouth full. He blew at the steam still wafting out of the egg roll.

"_Really_?" Jim sat up higher. Sulu groaned.

Chekov gulped and gave Sulu a wide eyed look. "Was I not supposed to say?" He took another bite of the egg roll.

"Oh, is he an agent here?" Jim knew Big Brother probably had some rule against that.

"Nyet. Assistant district at—Why are you hitting me?" Chekov glared at Sulu. He rubbed his arm.

"You would never make a good spook," Sulu grumbled. He narrowed a look over to Jim. "You didn't hear it from us."

Jim shrugged. "Hear what?" He took another mouthful of fried rice. "She won't hear it from me. My lips are sealed."

"Then why can I see you chewing your food?" Uhura remarked as she returned to the table. She made a face when all three of them opened their mouths wide at her. "Oh that's mature." She studied the snickering trio. "What won't I hear?"

"That we told Jim about your boyfriend Spock," Chekov answered absently as he poked through his food, looking for more pork.

Chekov yelped, unable to completely avoid the packets of soy sauce flying his way from all directions.

* * *

Despite the warmth of the car interior, Jim found he couldn't doze even though his aching body was insisting that curling up in the backseat would be nice.

Jim chewed the inside of his mouth. He darted a look over to McCoy in the driver's seat.

"What?" McCoy asked, his eyes never leaving the road.

"Nothing…" After a pause, Jim checked McCoy again.

"Enough with the staring," McCoy grumbled. "Out with it."

Jim stared at the taillights of the car in front of them. "How old is your kid?" Jim finally asked.

A soft smile quirked on McCoy's face. "Nine."

Huh. Jim looked away.

"What?" McCoy was starting to sound annoyed.

Jim shrugged. "No, it just…that call…you do that every day?"

"Yup."

"Sounds like you and her…" Jim fumbled. "Sounds like you two are close."

McCoy appeared startled when he glanced over. "She's my kid." McCoy shrugged. "I guess we're lucky we worked things out enough to be on speaking terms. Makes it easier on Jo."

"So why did you divorce?" Jim asked bluntly. "If you're that worried about how it would affect her…?"

"Things happen," McCoy said flatly, "and if we had stayed together, it would have been worse for our daughter." McCoy glowered at Jim. "Why do I have to explain myself to you?"

"You don't." Jim shrugged and stared idly out the window at the lights that kept Park Avenue aglow with brightness. They streaked by like glittering ribbons. "Just asking."

"Uh huh."

Jim slumped into his seat and glumly looked out his window. He wished they had stayed in the office longer. It felt like they left things half done; a painting unfinished. But McCoy had been frowning at him all through his daughter's call. Watching him. Jim shifted wishing now he'd accepted the painkillers Sulu had offered him. His bruises were starting to complain.

"Almost there," McCoy said quietly for some reason.

Jim fidgeted in his seat. He cleared his throat.

"So ah…Big plans for the weekend?"

"Oh, you know, I gotta fix the sink, catch up on my reading."

Jim pretended to yawn.

"I saw that."

Knowing McCoy, he probably did. Jim glanced over.

"Figured you would have something different planned."

"Why's that?"

"The eighth is when your daughter's coming over, isn't it?"

Jim's seatbelt jerked him back into his seat when McCoy suddenly braked.

"Sorry!" Jim mouthed as a few cars shot past them, honking angrily until McCoy double parked away from the flowing traffic.

"Damn, damn, damn!"

Jim winced. "I guess it slipped your mind."

McCoy looked like he was ready to shoot his car. He punched his steering wheel repeatedly.

Jim held up his hands. "Hey. Relax, you still have a few days."

McCoy shook his head." No, this is what happened _last_ year. I had a lead on the Dutchman and I just—" McCoy growled. "I promised my kid something great not just the usual trip to the Natural History museum and a shopping spree at Dylan's!"

Jim blinked. Actually that didn't sound bad. "Dinosaurs are fun." When McCoy scowled at him, Jim amended it to, "But she is nine now."

"Exactly." McCoy slumped back into his seat. "She's nine."

Jim tapped the dashboard. "Okay, let's problem solve. What does she like?"

"Peanut butter and raisin sandwiches and SpongeBob," McCoy answered immediately.

"Ugh, no." Jim grimaced. "I mean what are her hobbies? She into anything these days?"

McCoy screwed up his face. "I'm drawing a blank," he said finally. "I know she was into horses a few years back but these days…"

Jim stared. "When you were chasing me you knew my shoe size, what time I woke up in the morning. How could you not know what your—"

McCoy twisted around in his seat and jabbed a finger in the air at Jim. "Oh, no, no. You don't get to lecture me on that! My family didn't change their identities and flee the country to get away from me!"

As soon as the words were out, McCoy froze.

Jim swallowed. He set his jaw and looked out his window as McCoy started the car again. Sullen, he watched Park Avenue speed by him. He wondered where the people on the sidewalks were going; if anyone cared.

McCoy cleared his throat. "That was a shit thing to say. I didn't…I didn't mean that."

_Yes you did_, Jim thought but he said nothing. McCoy fell silent as he made the turn towards Pike's place.

"Look, we…" McCoy breathed out sharply. "My ex and I…we'd only started talking to each other again a few years ago and Jo…" His face twisted as he gripped the steering wheel tightly. "Last time I saw her every day, she was learning how to write her name and now, I get letters from her every month. _Letters_."

Jim didn't know what to say. He wasn't expecting the acerbic agent to tell him all this and now that he did, Jim was unsure what to do with the information.

"Was it me?"

Startled, McCoy's eyes whipped to the side. "What?"

"Your divorce." Jim swallowed. "The timing seems to be…was it because of my case?"

McCoy's laugh was harsh, self-loathing. "It would be easy to blame it all on you, but no." McCoy's mouth flattened. "Not completely. Chasing after you was the symptom, the final straw maybe, but no…" McCoy shook his head. "It wasn't you."

"Thank God," Jim joked weakly. "I didn't want to be the other woman."

McCoy snorted. "Don't flatter yourself." His shoulders slumped. "I was a bit…out of my head then…your case…you guys were just…convenient."

"Oh." Jim ignored the queasiness in his stomach when the agent said 'you guys'. Maybe that's why Sam and Eddy fled. "Is that 'you' as in me or 'you' as in us con men in general?"

Even in the dark, Jim could see McCoy's face turn to stone.

"Kind of explains why you were a…ah…"

"A little OCD?" McCoy drawled.

"How do—"

The agent laughed. "Three years, Jim. Three years."

Jim grumbled. "Took you three years _and_ a month." McCoy only laughed harder. Now, Jim couldn't help snickering as well. The suffocating air in the car dissipated and Jim sat there, smiling even after the mirth faded into an oddly comfortable silence.

His bruised fingers chose that moment to spasm. Jim shook them absently to ease the cramping.

"Rice."

Jim looked over. McCoy spared him a mild frown as he nodded to Jim's hand.

"Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation. Ice that hand and keep it elevated tonight."

Jim nodded and muttered his thanks as he massaged his hand with the other.

"Did they really flee the country?" Jim quietly asked after a few moments.

"I'm sorry, I don't know."

Jim slumped in his seat.

"They weren't trying to get away from me."

McCoy exhaled. "Jim—"

"They weren't." Jim stared broodingly out the window. "There must have been a reason."

"Thought you said the bottle was good-bye." McCoy tapped his steering wheel. "Thought that was them calling it quits."

"It was." Jim flexed his feet and felt the tracker knock against his ankle. "France? Maybe they went to France?" He had once promised Eddy they would go there. Someday.

"I don't know," McCoy sighed and was able to offer nothing more.

Jim would have kept asking, poking and prodding McCoy until the answers were given to him if he thought he was holding back. But glancing at the other man's face he was pretty certain he wasn't. So, he would have to find or make his own answers; ones that would make sense of the world again.

He was good at coming up with answers when things didn't work. Sam said so.

But he was too tired right now. His head hurt. Field's eyes wouldn't leave him alone.

"Just for a couple of bucks," Jim muttered.

"What?"

"Field. They killed him for a couple of bucks."

McCoy shot him a disbelieving look. "A hundred and forty million isn't a couple of bucks."

Jim scowled out his window. "Still, I think Field would have happily paid that to keep his life. It doesn't seem right."

"A thief with a moral dilemma. Imagine that." McCoy's tone wasn't mocking though; it was almost …admiring.

Uncomfortable, Jim sat up and scoffed. "_Thief_? I was a convicted forger."

"Same thing."

"No it's not." Jim waved idly at him. "It's like calling you a nurse instead of a doctor."

The amusement was still clear in McCoy's voice. "But I'm _not_ a doctor, I'm an agent."

Jim studied him. "But you could have been." He tensed when the car braked again.

"We're here," McCoy said, all humor gone. "Get some rest. I'll pick you up at nine tomorrow."

* * *

_87 Riverside Dr, New York City_

The thrill Jim had felt when they'd figured out the Dutchman's scam had long ebbed away by the time Jim staggered up the steps. The mansion was dark; everyone was already asleep. His body ached, his steps heavy and he could barely keep his eyes open.

Still, the sensation of something not right was still acute.

Jim squinted at the dining area in the back, tucked under the sweeping staircase. The hair on the back of his neck rose. He crept closer to the stairs and plucked an umbrella out, making a face at his choice. Jim took another step, close enough to make out a very human shape. Jim raised his umbrella.

"I saw the best minds in my generation get run down by the drunken taxi cab of absolute reality."

Jim stiffened. He leaned in, tugged on the light from the Tiffany lamp and grinned.

"_Scotty_?" Jim lowered his umbrella. "Sitting in the dark, misquoting Ginsburg?"

"Aye, Jimmy. The light's how they find you."

Scotty sported a close to the skull crew cut now. Thankfully, he'd lost the goatee that gave him that weird, devious look. Otherwise, Scotty was exactly how Jim remembered him, even though Scotty had never visited him in prison. Jim had understood. That was just how Scotty was. Sam once called him a paranoid son-of-a-bitch. Jim thought it was just Scotty being…Scotty.

There was a fond, wry grin on Scotty's face as he lightly slapped him on the arm. "Ah, look at you, laddie." He nodded approvingly as Jim opened his arms and made a show of turning for him to see. "I like the hat."

Jim dropped down in a chair and stared at him. He had been trying to figure out how to reach his old friend without McCoy realizing. Finally, he had left a one word message on the answering machine of the last number he remembered. "How'd you get in?"

"I used this," Scotty quipped and he raised a fist. At Jim's look, he bristled and a bit of his childhood brogue crept in. "What did you think I was doing? I knocked. Has prison wiped all sense of politeness out of you now?" Scotty harrumphed. "I knocked and introduced myself. That Pike's a fine gentleman. Impressive spirits collection." Scotty made his face. "Those beagles he's watching over donnae seem to like me much." Scotty leaned forward and waggled his eyebrows. "Did you see his niece though?"

Jim shook his head, smiling. "Thanks for coming."

Scotty scoffed. "What was I going to do? _Not_ come?" He sobered. "Can I see it?"

Cautiously—although Jim knew it wasn't _that _sensitive—lifted his leg up and set it on the table between them. He tugged up his trousers to reveal the device.

"Can you pick it?"

Scotty ran his fingers under, over, around the thick cuff before he sat back, shaking his head. "No way, lad. You flew to close to the sun on this one, Jimmy." Scotty grimaced. "They burned your wings.

Jim swallowed. He'd known deep down that the possibility was minute otherwise McCoy would never have agreed. He eased his leg back down. "What about Sam? Or Eddy? Where did they go?"

"They're ghosts on the wind. They did a fine job of melting away."

As children, Sam had been the best at making himself invisible. And until Jim had gotten old enough to handle himself he had shielded him from those who were drunk or bored or pissed and looking for entertainment. It turned out Frank hadn't been that unique after all.

"Well, keep looking." Jim paused. "Check France."

"France?"

Jim held up a hand at Scotty's look. "I know, okay it's probably nothing, just…look everywhere."

"Sure, sure. I'll give it all I got." Scotty clapped him soundly on the back.

Jim smiled wearily at him.

"So…McCoy, huh?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Yeah, McCoy."

"Of all the agents—He still that nasty pitbull Sam said he was?"

"An OCD Rottweiler and yeah, lately, he's been obsessed with this Dutchman guy."

"Ech. Dutchman. Just like a G-man to name their targets with something so…so…military."

Jim shook his head, smiling. Scotty definitely hadn't changed. "He's good though." Jim pulled out the parchment McCoy had left with him. "I need you to help me figure out who created this."

The crinkle of the bond unfolding coaxed Scotty closer to the weak glow of light. Scotty pulled out a jeweler's eyepiece from his pockets and squinted through it.

"It's superb." Scotty lifted his head at Jim. "A Goya?"

Jim nodded. "Best forgery I've seen." He paused and then added with honesty. "Except for mine."

Scotty tsked. "Normally I would agree but you ruined your own record with that horrible Vermeer's _The Concert._"

"I was sick!" Jim protested. Stupid Sam had forgotten he was allergic to eggplant again.

"The reflection showed them in a threesome! Oh but it made me laugh to see that. That and the old fussbudget millionaire who almost bought it at Christie's."

Chuckling, Scotty took off his specs and idly brushed his fingers along the border. "You know the worst thing about art forgery?" He sighed with regret. "You can't take credit for your work."

Cocking his head, Jim sat down next to Scotty. He chewed his lower lip.

"What?"

"Maybe," Jim said slowly as he slid the bond back to him, "maybe you can."

* * *

_Brooklyn, New York City_

Technically this was outside of his radius.

Jim peered down at the girl with pigtails, who stared back up at him with no fear, a Cheerio stuck on a freckled cheek and a yellow Labrador yawning against her hip.

_Definitely_ outside of his radius.

"Uh, I'm looking for Leonard McCoy?"

"I know who you are," the little girl announced. "You're that damn James T. Kirk." She wrinkled her nose. "That's not cussing. That's what my Dad calls you."

Jim grinned. "You must be Joanna." His brow furrowed. "Thought you were coming this weekend?"

"Camp ended early. It was a surprise." Joanna giggled. "Dad's upstairs freaking out because he thinks I can't stay home alone."

Jim grinned. Bones freaking out? He would like to see that and told her so.

Joanna pursed her lips in a mini-McCoy fashion. Jim could now see the resemblance.

"You're not really a stranger," Joanna decided. She checked with the dog. "And Satchmo didn't eat you so you can't be too bad. And you're helping my Dad catch bad guys. Okay. You can come in."

Jim wasn't sure if he should be worried or impressed with Joanna McCoy's logic when he entered.

* * *

Christine Chapel was a godsend.

_"I don't have a shift until Friday and Roger's not back from his dig. I could use the company."_

Leonard sagged against his bedroom doorway. "Chris, thank you. Really. I wasn't expecting Jo to get here until—Not that I don't want her here…" A few extra days with his girl left an unaccustomed grin on his face this early in the morning even without coffee. "But I didn't make arrangements yet and fu—excuse me, the two weeks wasn't even submitted yet and—"

There was a laugh in his ear.

_"Relax, Len. I said it was okay. Jo and I got along fine last year when she was here. We had lots of fun then, too."_

Leonard winced at the reminder. "I'm a rotten father."

_"No, just one who still can't let go of work when he needs to. Listen, we'll check out Brooklyn Art and have pizza at Grimaldi's. Give us a call about dinner and when she goes back, you will buy me something disgustingly expensive that will make my Roger jealous enough to head down the block to beat the crap out of you."_

Leonard barked out a relieved laugh. "Did you just threaten a federal employee?"

_"No, I just threatened my ex-brother-in-law_." Christine snickered. _"Joss would kill me though. My little sister likes her alimony."_

Leonard rolled his eyes. "Nice to know I would be missed."

A beep in his ear made him frown.

"Hang on, I have another call." Leonard balanced his phone as he pulled on a sock. "McCoy."

_"It's Sulu. Kirk's anklet is activated. Is he with you?"_

Damn it.

Leonard snarled. Damn it. He was surprised it had taken the kid this long to try something. He hurriedly finished dressing. "No. I'm coming."

_"Pavel's pulling up his location. Uhura is calling the Marshals."_

"Hang on." Leonard switched back to his other line. "Chris, can you come over right now?" he asked urgently.

Chris, used to the rapid requests of an ER, didn't ask why. _"I'll be there in five minutes."_

Leonard was pounding down the stairs as he struggled into his jacket. He stuffed his tie in his pocket. "Sulu? Good. I'm on my way. Give me a few minutes to head out the door. Backtrack Kirk's last few hours…Jo?" he called out. "I'm sorry, honey, but Daddy has to go to the office right now, Aunt Chris is coming over and—"

Kirk looked up at him from the couch.

"Dad!" Jo chirped.

Kirk waggled his fingers back at him before he turned back to his daughter. "So then your dad said 'Don't pander to me, kid. I know when a chicken's not a chick—'"

"Hey!" Leonard yelped. The last thing his daughter needed to hear was _that._

_"McCoy?"_

Leonard glowered at the two on the couch. "Cancel the cavalry. Kirk is with me."

There was a lengthy pause. _"You're sure?"_

Unfortunately. "Yeah."

"Morning."

"Morning," Leonard replied automatically. "Clean your face, Jo. You have a Cheerio on your cheek." He glowered at Kirk. "You're on my couch." He moved his glare to Jo who was trying to hide the fact she'd just fed Satchmo the stuck Cheerio round. He let his disapproval show. "You're not supposed to let strangers in."

Joanna blinked at him. "But he's not a stranger. Satchmo thought he was okay."

"Jo, Satchmo once ran away from a pebble because he thought it was a bug. He wouldn't know if it's the mailman or an ax murderer at the door."

"He's not an ax murderer or a serial…"

"Serial killer," Kirk said helpfully and damn it, his girl happily thanked him.

"See? He's Jim."

Kirk beamed up at him.

Leonard scowled. "Damn it, Jim. Get off my couch."

"_Daddy_." Damn if his daughter didn't sound like his ex right there. "He was telling me stories about when you were chasing him."

"The key word here is stories." Leonard pointed at Kirk. "How did you get here?"

Kirk rolled his eyes. "Uh…Cab? There are plenty around New York?"

Leonard waved at him. "You activated your tracker. You're in my house, on my couch, with my daughter."

Satchmo trotted over to Kirk and dropped an empty bowl at his feet.

"Good, Satchmo," Kirk crowed as he ran his fingers up and down his sides. Treacherous dog barked and wagged his tail frantically. "Would you like some more cereal?"

Leonard threw up his arms in disgust. "And you're petting my dog."

"Why don't you like the name Bones?" Jo blurted out despite Kirk shushing her.

Leonard's glower intensified. "You told her." He shook his head at Jo. "It's just a nickname, Jo. It's silly."

Kirk grinned. "I think it suits you."

Leonard grabbed his cell. "I'm putting you back in prison."

"But Dad!" Jo whined. "He knows who your Dutch man is!"

Leonard pursed his lips. Slowly he hung up the phone. He growled when Jo and Kirk high-fived each other.

The frantic knocking on the door drew everyone's attention to it.

"Uh…" Kirk hedged. "Want me to get that?"

* * *

Christine was introduced to Kirk very enthusiastically by Joanna—much to Leonard's irritation and Christine's amusement. She giggled when Kirk kissed her hand and offered her a seat on Leonard's couch. Christine smiled demurely, complimented him on his hat before Leonard's glower sobered her. She excused herself, made coffee (thank God), got juice for Jo and they sat around the couch. Satchmo dropped himself at Kirk's feet. The traitor. Jo insisted on getting a plate of cookies as well.

When had the Dutchman case became storytelling material, Leonard didn't have a clue.

Leonard folded his arms and leaned on the bookcase that divided up the den from the dining area. "All right," he drawled, waving to Kirk. "Enlighten me."

"Nero." At Leonard's blank face, Kirk went on. "He's an art restorer. One of the best in the world, but his own work never took off." Kirk paused, his mouth curving into a smirk. "He's particularly good at Goya restorations." He pointed to the bond he set on the coffee table. "That's what this is. The bond is him showing off."

Nero? What was with the one word names? They were artists, not rock stars. Leonard shook his head. "Interesting theory. How do we prove it?"

"He signed it."

Leonard snorted. "I think we might've noticed a signature tucked in the corner."

Jo bounced on the couch as she tugged at Kirk's sleeve. "Can I show him? Can I?" When Kirk handed over the magnifying glass with a smile, even Leonard couldn't help but smile as Jo waved him closer to peer at a spot at the lower corner.

"Look at the pants on the Spanish peasant. What do you see? Look. Look really close." She said rushing through her words.

"It says 'Nero'," Jo burst out, nearly dropping the eyepiece in her excitement. "It's like those hidden puzzles in school!"

Leonard winced as he straightened. "I don't know, that's a stretch."

"I think I see it," Christine volunteered as she took a turn.

"Only because he mentioned it," Leonard explained. "You're only seeing it because you expect it. It's not admissible as evidence."

"This bond is a masterpiece," Kirk argued. He looked at the bond wistfully. "If I'd done something this good, I would've signed it too."

Leonard groaned. Great, forgery envy.

"Hey, the forgeries you caught me on, I signed them."

Leonard arched an eyebrow at him. "Where?"

Kirk mirrored him. "Look at the bank seal under polarized light sometime."

Leonard grimaced. Knowing that would have made things a hell of a lot easier then. It didn't occur to Leonard until later to wonder what it meant that Kirk had told him at all.

"The news gets even better. Nero is here in town. He's doing a church restoration on Third Street." Kirk's eyes gleamed. "We can stop by on our way in."


	6. Act 4

**Act 4**

_St. Boniface Cathedral, Third Street, Brooklyn_

There was something about the smell of colored oils Jim found intoxicating.

Sam said it was because he was sniffing the fixative in the oils. Sometimes his brother had no soul.

"This is it." McCoy murmured as he gave the vaulted ceilings and the arches a long glance one that said maybe he felt a little bit of what Jim did too.

Jim whispered back. "This is it."

With a tug of his suit, McCoy took another step forward only to be aborted by a priest coming up the aisle.

"You can't come in, we're closed for restoration."

McCoy grimaced but nodded. He backtracked. "Sorry, Father."

Jim eyed the vignette at the end of the rows of seats. He sidestepped around McCoy, ignoring the grumbled, "Hey" and touched the priest's sleeve. "Oh, could we just…could we just have a moment?"

McCoy stared at the back of his head. "What are you—"

Jim steered the priest neatly around McCoy. He waved the agent back with a hand behind him.

"Father," Jim murmured respectfully. "Please, my best friend is having a crisis of the soul. He's a federal agent who chases down criminals, studies them, and over time feels like he knows them almost better than family. He becomes consumed by finding them, changing them. He forgets to eat. To sleep. Even forgets about his own daughter coming to town to visit." Jim made a face. "But can he truly change what's in their souls? Aren't some of these people just born broken?"

The priest sighed and sadly shook his head. "It's very common today, to struggle like this. To want to change those around us to be the way we would wish them to be."

"Exactly. He is consumed. It destroyed his marriage and now… I fear this need to change things…well…. He can't fix everyone can he? For some of them it's just too late, isn't it?" Jim muttered under his breath, "I mean don't get me started on the last one. A total con artist. A problem child from the day he was born. His own family cast him aside. And here's my friend trying to see some good in him but at what cost? I've tried talking to him about this need to fix things that aren't fixable, but…" Jim turned the priest towards McCoy inspecting the pulpit. "But he's very spiritual," Jim added.

The priest eyed McCoy, who raised a puzzled eyebrow back.

Jim cleared his throat. "I know this is the place where my words will have the most effect."

The priest started to steer him to the door. "This is the city of churches. We're closed. Surely, there's another place—"

"This is where he was married, where his daughter was baptized," Jim interrupted, "I figure if this doesn't remind him of what he needs to focus on, his daughter, his own life, rather than saving the soul of one messed up broken criminal…well…" Jim pretended to let his voice tremble.

The priest eyed McCoy. He shook his head sadly at McCoy and sighed. "Five minutes."

Jim shook the priest's hand. "Thank you, thank you, Father." He trotted back to a scowling McCoy. "Sorry about that," Jim whispered, "we've got five."

"Did you just _lie_ to a priest?" McCoy hissed.

Jim blinked. "Nope."

McCoy, taken aback, asked somewhat suspiciously. "Really?"

Jim clapped McCoy soundly on the back. "Trust me, Bones. I just told him the truth. The whole truth. And nothing but..." He left his hand on McCoy's shoulder and prodded him towards the back vignette even as McCoy muttered to stop calling him that, his tone indicating that he still didn't believe Jim, which was funny all things considered. Jim had opened his mouth to spin a yarn about an illicit office romance and Uhura and Bones but halfway there he'd found himself changing his mind. It had shocked him that Bones, after the initial bluster, had let him hang out with him and Jo this morning. Him. Like he really wasn't a bad guy just like Jo had said. Which was just a little bit messed up wasn't it? Maybe when they were done he really would have the priest give Bones a little talking to after they got what they were came for. His breath caught at the golden sheen of the painting. Which was right there.

"Extraordinary," Jim breathed. His hands twitched as he caught sight of paintbrushes someone had left behind.

"Yeah, it is." McCoy scanned the artwork up and down. "Well, if this Nero guy is as good as you say, how come I've never heard of him?"

Jim, still gazing at the perfect trinity of space and form, murmured, distracted. "You only know the guys who got caught. You know the second best criminals."

"What's that say about you?"

Jim smirked. "Who says you caught me? Maybe I waited for you?" He pointed at the netted borders at the bottom as McCoy sputtered.

"What? Why? No way."

It had given enough time for Sam and Edith to get away and it had finally allowed him to meet the man who had followed him for so long. Course it had ended in prison. Showing again that Jim didn't think long term very well sometimes. Jim just shrugged. "Look."

"Where?"

Jim huffed, using one of Sam's favorite phrases with him. "Do I have to do everything?" Jim took him by the elbow and nudged him closer. He pulled out his magnifying piece. "Right there. Right—there."

Squinting, McCoy peered through the lens at the carved dress edge. "There? Maybe," he muttered begrudgingly.

"What do you mean _maybe_?" This time, he gave in to the urge to smack McCoy on the arm. "That's an N and you can clearly see—."

"Can I help you, gentleman?"

Jim straightened and smiled at the man in an art smock. Tall, broad shouldered, Nero walked as if he had an Armani suit on. "That's all right," Jim said cheerfully. "Just trying to instill some culture in my friend here." Jim took a step to the side to avoid the heel of McCoy's shoe.

"Your face…" Nero rubbed his chin. Dark eyes studied Jim and narrowed. "I know your face."

Jim perked up. "Really?"

"Oh for crying out loud," McCoy muttered behind him.

"Maybe I've seen it on the news…" Nero's eyes narrowed. "Or on a most wanted web page."

Oh. Jim kept the smile on his face as he extended his hand. "James T. Kirk."

Nero merely eyed it. He slipped his hands into his pockets. "Forgive me if I don't shake hands with an art thief."

_Asshole_. Jim's smile thinned. "I was never arrested for art theft."

"Not arrested, but as I recall you were known as quite the flashy criminal." Nero considered Jim carefully, his mouth twisted into a smirk Jim wanted to wipe off. "So you can understand my concern at having you in my space." Nero turned to McCoy as if he just noticed him.

"And you are?"

"Just a friend," McCoy rumbled.

Nero chuckled lightly. "Well…_friend_." He stepped to the side and gestured towards the doors. "This church is closed."

McCoy nodded, shrugging as if leaving was his intention all along. "I've had enough culture."

Jim matched his long stride. "Did you see it?" he whispered.

"Okay, you've got me curious," McCoy admitted, "we'll check him out."

"Listen to the friend, son, not all those who wander can be turned back to the path," the priest called out to McCoy not unkindly.

"Uh, right." Leonard glanced over, baffled. "What's that about?"

"Friend, more like ball and chain." Jim muttered glancing woefully at his leg tracker, "Can we please get something to eat in a good area first? I'm starved."

"Oh, right, like you can't find anything good to eat in that palace you're staying in."

"It's very limiting."

"You're only limited by your imagination."

"I have plenty of imagination."

"For crime, not food."

"Details. Details."

* * *

_F.B.I., Lower Manhattan_

No sooner had Kirk walked into Leonard's office than he was ordered to shut the door.

Kirk opened his hands and froze in front of his desk.

"Whatever it was, I was here the whole time and Sulu did it."

"Funny." Leonard tossed him over a folder. "Need your opinion on this."

"You need _my_ opinion? And what have I been doing up until now?" Kirk stared.

Leonard glared. Kirk cleared his throat.

"This the information on Nero?"

"No, Uhura's on her way with that. This is sort of research on something else." Leonard's face was stony.

Kirk hesitated, flipping open the folder, realizing what he was perusing, he slowed and started at the front of the stack again. He squinted at them, lifting up one to the light. "Uh…These are travel brochures."

"Uh huh." Leonard grunted. "Handed in my vacation request for when Jo's back here again. Thought we would go on a trip together. Except. Except I'm not good at these things. So I need an opinion."

"Why not Uhura or Sulu? Even Chekov's probably good with this sort of thing."

"Yeah, well, I'm not asking them. I asked you."

Leonard's look promised Kirk he'd do something evil and permanent to him if Kirk made a joke out of that statement. He was serious about asking Kirk's advice. Kirk looked at the pamphlets again. "But what about now?" he asked quietly.

Leonard rubbed his forehead. "We don't know when this case will close and she has to fly back to Atlanta at the end of next week and get ready for school."

"Somehow I don't think a trip to a talking mouse and a fake German castle is going to make up for it," Kirk pointed out.

Leonard leaned into his chair. He heaved a sigh. "I know."

Kirk scrutinized the next glossy brochure. "Nor is going down a water slide day after day."

"You don't think? She likes swimming."

"She could get an ear infection—"

"All right! Then what?"

Kirk set the pamphlets down. "Maybe we'll close this case soon."

Shaking his head, Leonard eyed him. "It took me over two years, you're offering to do it in—what? Two _weeks_?"

Kirk shrugged. "I'll make you a deal."

"You already did," Leonard reminded him.

"I'll make you another one." Kirk hesitated. "I help you close this case so you have time with Jo and you get me something."

"What?"

"The wine bottle," Kirk said subdued. "I just want the wine bottle."

Leonard studied him. "Why?"

"It's an '82 Bordeaux."

Leonard nodded. "Yeah, costs eight hundred bucks a pop."

"It does when it's full." Jim shrugged. "I got it empty."

Leonard frowned. "Empty?"

Kirk stared at a spot past his ear. "When Eddy and I met, we had nothing. I got that bottle when we got together." He laughed awkwardly. "A sign that we could fix things. That they would get better. I used to fill it up with whatever cheap wine we could afford and we'd sit in our crappy apartment and drink it over cold pizza and pretend we were living in the Cote d'Azur."

Leonard smiled grimly. "And how'd that work out for you?"

"It didn't." Kirk cleared his throat. "That bottle was a promise of a better life. What Eddy got was a guy locked away for half a decade." Kirk rubbed his hands up and down his thighs. "I promised her Sam would watch out for her but he's gone too. She was left alone and I promised her that would never happen." Blue eyes squarely met his. "Make your little girl any promises?"

Before Leonard could answer—Uhura knocked on the door.

"Hey," Leonard said, inexplicably relieved. He frowned at his probie's unsmiling face. "What've you got?"

Uhura handed him a printout. "Nero is leaving the country. He booked a flight through a private charter company in Barcelona for the 19th."

"One week?" Leonard reread the form. His jaw clenched. "Damn it, seeing us must've tipped him off."

"He's going to Spain, that's something," Kirk pointed out.

It was something; just not something he could use. "Is there _any_ connection to our books, the bonds, or the murder?"

Uhura's mouth twisted unhappily. "Nero's as impressive as hell. A lot of international holdings, but he keeps himself out of the muck."

"You get every available agent on this," Leonard ordered. "You know the good ones, steal 'em if you have to. I want to know every single thing about this guy and I don't want any excuses from other field operatives that they can't spare them. Anything gets in your way—"

"Forge your signature. Always do."

Leonard's mouth snapped shut. "I didn't hear that!" he hollered to her departing back. Leonard shook his head and turned to Kirk.

"Looks like you'll get your deal. If you're right about Nero, we have one week to connect him to the bond." Leonard stared at him steadily. "If we lose him on the 19th though…Jim, if we lose him, you're back in." Leonard's stomach churned. "I can't save you."

Kirk didn't flinch. He nodded gravely.

* * *

_87 Riverside Dr, New York City_

The piano was _Steinway_, flawless in tone, pitch and made a hell of a surface when Jim slid his hat across it.

"You're late," Scotty chided out of the dark as he caught the hat and plopped it on his own head.

"Hey, give me a break." Jim walked around and retrieved the hat. It wasn't a good look for Scotty. "I'm a working man now."

Scotty tracked Jim patiently as he paced the length of the piano.

"Well, laddie?"

Jim stopped in his tracks. "We were right about Nero."

Scotty sniffed. "Of course we were right."

Jim sighed. "And I was stupid and impulsive and he saw me. I have one week to link him to the bonds."

Scotty's eyes drew to slits. "Or what?"

Jim shrugged, his throat working.

Scotty tensed. "They cannae do that."

Jim's throat worked. He stared at the polished surface. "I think they can."

"No, no, no…" Scotty drummed his fingers on the piano top, the pattern going faster and faster as his brow furrowed. "We'll figure this out."

Jim's mouth quirked wearily. "Yeah." Good ole Scotty. He turned the hat in his hands. "Did you find anything about Sam or Eddy?"

Scotty's fingers stopped mid-beat. "Apparently, a tree falls in the forest, it _does_ make a sound."

The photo traveled just as easily across the surface like his hat. Jim gingerly picked up the photo. He pressed his lips together at the image of Eddy looking off to her shoulder at the hand resting there.

"Recognize the ring?" Scotty asked.

Jim numbly shook his head.

"Maybe it's Sam's?"

"No. The hand's all wrong. I…I don't think it's him."

Scotty rotated the picture back towards himself. "You sure? Lass donnae look scared of him."

Shaking his head, Jim bit his lower lip. "I may lose her again, Scotty."

"_Lose_ her? I just bloody found her!"

Jim pointed to the hand with the ring. "But so did he."

* * *

_F.B.I., Lower Manhattan_

Despite the morning traffic blaring outside, Kirk's careful question was loud and clear.

"Remember when you told me not to look for Sam or Eddy?"

Leonard closed his eyes briefly. He should have known. Kirk was far too quiet when he picked him up this morning. "Yeah," he said warily. He tracked Kirk making his way to a chair, taking a little too much care not to wrinkle the navy pinstripe trousers when he sat down. Kirk ran a hand across his jacket before pulling something out.

A photo slid across the desk to Leonard; he focused on a black and white image of Edith Keeler, then exhaled sharply. He stood up and walked around to sit on the edge of his desk so he could see Kirk better. He took a deep, steadying breath before he could trust himself to speak.

"Where did you get this?"

Kirk, as usual, ignored the question he didn't want to answer. "These were taken four days ago at a San Diego ATM. She's going under the name Edith Perdue. You know what Perdue means in French?"

"It means 'lost'," Leonard translated. Was Keeler lost to him or was she lost without him? Leonard could see the question in Kirk's eyes. He held a hand up before Kirk continued. "Don't do this to yourself."

"Look, I just need a couple of days after this Dutchman thing is over, a couple days to go to San Diego. You can send an agent with me. _You_ can come with me—Sea World's in San Diego. Bring Jo if you want."

"Was your brother there, too?"

Startled, Kirk shook his head.

Leonard folded his arms. "So what happens if you find a photo of him? Do you need a couple of days for that as well?"

"I—"

Leonard gripped Kirk by the arms. Kirk went rigid so he let go. "I'm sorry. But does it even occur to you that they could have contacted you? Left you a note? Anything more than a wine bottle as a fucking message? Look how hard you're looking for them and you've got an F.B.I. approved ankle bracelet on for crying out loud. You don't think they could try just as good, even better? _You_ come up with a photo. What do they try to come up with? Nothing. I think…I think that's because they're not looking." Leonard told him firmly. He wanted to give Kirk a shake. "How many times are you going to screw up your life for this girl? Or for your brother? When they're the ones who got you sent to jail in the first place!"

Jim's eyes flared. "Sam didn't—"

"_Sam_ let you take the fall for _all_ of it. I hate to break it you, kid, but think. Edith. Sam. I think she was with him. _With him_."

"That's not true."

"It is true. Do you think I want it to be? Why do you think I haven't ever said anything before now?"

"It's not true. It's not." Jim whispered. But McCoy kept talking over him.

"I saw them both on the monitors when we reviewed them that day we caught you, they didn't look worried, or concern, or, hell and tarnation, anything of those things I would have looked if I had left you behind."

"Not true."

"Do you think I want it to be true? If I'd wanted it to be true to hurt you I would have told you all this when I saw it, back on that day when we caught you."

"Not true." Sam protected him. That's the way it was. Except who had Sam left behind to face Frank? It was only when Jim had run away and caught up with his brother, his eye swelling nearly shut that Sam had let him join him.

"Who went to prison? How many times did Eddy visit you? Why not Sam? He wasn't there and it makes me wonder. Why the hell not? Look at your file. Who was taking care of whom? I want to be wrong. I really do. I'm sorry. But don't throw your life away for them. Not again."

"No." Something hurt inside Jim. Something all the way to the center of him. Like he'd been shot. He breathed shallowly. If he didn't have Sam and Eddy what did he have? It couldn't be true. "No, you don't know them."

Jim jutted his chin out trying to breathe but it hurt. "You're wrong. Sam wouldn't do that to me. He's my _brother_. And Eddy… I know there's more to our story. She's the one. Sam wouldn't. They need me."

McCoy shook his head. "Jim…" he sighed. He handed the photo back to Jim. His mouth thinned as he watched Jim carefully folding it and tucking it back into his pocket.

"I brought this to you," Jim said softly. "Doesn't that count for something?"

Bones looked like he was tempted to grab the photo and shred it. "We made a deal. Okay. We'll stick to it. Let's get this case done and see where we're at then. Maybe something else will come up. Just don't go doing something crazy until then. Okay?"

Jim pressed his lips together.

Leaning closer, Bones lowered his voice. "Please, Jim. Once this is done, if you still feel this way. I'll see what we can find out about them. Promise me."

Before Jim could answer—what the answer would be, he didn't have a clue—there was a knock at the door. Sulu leaned into the room. His gaze darted between them. He failed to hide his grimace.

"Hey, you told me to remind you about the meeting?" Sulu nodded to the side. "Everyone's here." Sulu gave Jim an apologetic one-shoulder shrug before escaping.

Jim could feel McCoy staring at his back as he rose to his feet. He didn't turn around until he reached the door.

Jim gave him a brittle smile over his shoulder, "A promise. From a felon? Really, _Leonard_? Are you sure you can trust me?"

McCoy winced.

* * *

A meeting with the F.B.I. team that Kirk didn't even pay attention to and an hour later, Kirk and Leonard were on their way out of the building. Exiting security and the glass doors, Kirk continued walking. Leonard stared after him, frustrated, but caught up to him, leaving Sulu behind at the security check out station, still waiting to clear through.

Their strides were more like they were racing each other until Kirk finally eased his pace as they drew near the federal plaza courtyard. Reholstering his weapon after inspection, Sulu hurried to catch up as well.

Leonard wanted to say something, but his phone was buzzing, Uhura again. He called for Kirk to hold up.

"I'm gonna to go grab some coffee," Kirk said all of the sudden, spotting the kiosk.

Leonard frowned as he tried to listen with one ear to what Uhura was saying. "Hey, I'll get it, I owe you that much."

Shoulders lifted. "It's okay."

"No, I mean it. It's been a shitty day." Leonard grunted into his phone. "Not you, Uhura."

"I'll start the order," Kirk made a capitulating sound. He hesitated and turned to call back.

"You ever figure out what you're going to do yet with your kid?"

"Hang on," Leonard tucked the cell into his ear and sighed. "Not yet, but I will." He smiled briefly to himself as he thought of the photo Jo sent him on his cell of the zoo she visited with her aunt. "She doesn't ask for much."

"No," Kirk said. "She doesn't. You need to take care of her." He glanced across the plaza. "I'll be quick, okay?"

Leonard surveyed the people standing around, noting the faces. He pulled out a familiar one. "Sulu, keep an eye on him."

"Okay," Sulu hollered back.

"Later," Kirk said subdued.

Leonard watched him turn away. His stomach knotted as he considered the figure walking away before his attention was drawn back to Nyota.

* * *

_F.B.I., Lower Manhattan_

_"…and then the giraffe took the apple from my hand!"_

Leonard chuckled softly into the phone. "Did you remember to thank Aunt Christine?"

_"Uh huh. And she even got me pizza at that place you took me to last time. I ate _two_ slices!"_

"Wow, _two_ slices, huh? Someone was hungry."

_"Aunt Christine ate three but she said not to tell anyone. It's a secret."_

Leonard lowered his voice. "I'm a federal agent. I know how to keep lots of secrets."

There was a giggle.

Leonard smiled sadly into the phone. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there, Jo." Again.

_"That's okay. Maybe you can come back early for dinner?"_ Jo asked hopefully. _"Aunt Christine is going to help me make Grandma's meatloaf."_

"Sounds delicious. Eight?"

_"Can we watch Toy Story?"_

"Again?"

_"Please?"_

Leonard chuckled. Jo was going to fall asleep halfway again anyway. "Fine. I better go. I'll see you at eight."

_"Promise?"_

His throat suddenly tight, Leonard curled a fist and nodded. He croaked, "Promise."

_"Okay, Dad. Catch lots of bad guys! Love you!"_

"Me too," Leonard sighed to the dial tone. Glumly, he stared at his phone. At the knock, he raised his eyes.

Kirk lingered by the door, smelling faintly of coffee. He held up a slip of paper between two fingers. "I found Nero."

Leonard arched an eyebrow at him.

"There's this warehouse, down by the docks. Nero runs it through a shell corporation out of Guatemala."

Skeptically, Leonard studied Kirk. "We didn't know about this, how did you?"

Kirk's shrug was unconvincing. Leonard felt about as good as pond scum. Kid's spirits were obviously at an all time low thanks to him. "I don't think you rely on rumor as much as I do."

"Uh huh." Leonard was not going to push because he knew he'll only end up hating the answer. He grabbed his jacket. "Let's go."

* * *

_Queens, New York City_

A lone foghorn bayed in the distance. It was the only sound in the rundown dock. Leonard nodded to Kirk to come closer. They both crouched by a door.

"Do you hear that?" Kirk pressed his ear to the corrugated metal siding.

Leonard screwed up his face, straining to listen. "Hear what?"

"Kind of a rhythmic…" Kirk made a shushing sound as he tried to mimic what was inside. Kirk's eyes widened. "That's a press." Kirk pointed frantically at the building. "He's printing bonds in there right now, you can hear him!"

Leonard leaned into the wall for another listen. Damn. Kirk was right. "How long until they're done?"

"A multicolor print shop as complicated as the Goya? Test proofs, ink formulation, perfection registration…"

"Kirk!" Leonard hissed as Kirk sank into mumbling.

Kirk snapped out of it. "Days. He'll be running it for days."

The cell phone nearly tumbled out of his hands as he pulled it out. "Chekov."

_"Boss?"_

"I need recording equipment down here immediately."

_"You got it."_

Leonard snapped the phone shut, in time to snag Kirk by the collar. "Where do you think you're going?"

Kirk stared at him like he was an idiot. "Inside."

Vehemently shaking his head, Leonard held fast. "No way. Not by ourselves. We can't go in there. Let's go."

Kirk tugged away from Leonard. "You can hear them. We can catch them in the act!"

"And have our case throw out of court because we went in without cause?" Leonard hissed.

Kirk gaped at him. "_Cause_? Nero had a man killed. You can hear the presses inside. They're obviously—"

With a growl, Leonard pulled Kirk by his tie. "Obvious is not admissible in a court of law."

Kirk jerked back. He straightened his tie, his mouth set. "And this is why it took you guys all this time and got nothing until I helped you." He said pointedly.

Christ, Leonard wanted to swing a fist at the kid here and now but while he was bound by law not to go in, Nero's men would have no qualms in coming _iout/i_.

"We're leaving," he grated. "_Now_."

* * *

_F.B.I., Lower Manhattan_

"Okay," McCoy announced, "So Nero is our guy. We still don't have enough for a warrant."

"We know the bonds are there," Jim argued for what seemed like the thousandth time, "that should be enough."

A heavy tome glided across the table, stopping at the edge in front of him. Jim picked it up.

"Warrant Law?" he read the cover.

McCoy gestured at the volume. "All I've got is sound coming out of a warehouse and no way to link him to the bond." McCoy pursed his lips and considered Jim.

"I've got to talk to your friend."

"Friend?" Jim fought back the surprise springing in his chest. "What friend?" he asked evenly.

"The guy who made your coffee." McCoy nodded to his desk on the note Jim had handed him before.

Jim stiffened. "I have no—"

McCoy gave him a look. "You think Sulu is an idiot?"

Jim set his jaw. "Maybe the guy Sulu saw was just an engineering maestro with an espresso machine."

" I have to know how he connected Nero to the warehouse." McCoy opened his hands. "You gotta trust me."

Jim clamped his mouth shut and stared at the table.

"Look, unless you can find me another legitimate reason to bust in there, your friend is our best shot." McCoy ran a hand through his hair. "We can't get a warrant to his warehouse without justifiable cause. No warrant, no bonds. No bonds, no Dutchman. No Dutchman—Do I need to go on?"

No, he didn't. Jim sighed.

"I'll bring you to him."

"When?"

"First thing tomorrow."

* * *

_87 Riverside Dr, New York City_

Warrant Law was _boring_.

Jim flipped to the next page of the book before he gave up and set it down on his bare stomach. Chris Pike had loaned him a few law books as well which Jim had skimmed through. Why Pike had them, he wouldn't say but cryptically mentioned they were well used. They were. The spines were cracked, pages yellowed at the corners. Jim found himself distracted at times trying to decipher the odd penciled in notations along the margins.

Pike said the answer was most likely not in the books but maybe between the lines—whatever the hell that meant. Jim eyed the tome again and gazed past his outstretched legs to the clock.

Bringing Scotty to McCoy was not an option. Scotty was fifty percent paranoia and fifty percent pure genius. Poor guy would expire the moment he set foot on the first step. He fled to _Iceland_ for four months for Pete's sake under the fear that feds had found out his real name.

Jim exhaled. He turned his head into the sofa. His brother, right now, would argue Scotty was the only way to get the Dutchman and keep the facsimile of freedom tethered to his ankle. Just give Scotty up to McCoy, let the OCD Rottweiler have a go at Scotty to pick on everything he knows.

No way.

Jim gnashed his teeth together. He flipped back up the law book, reading a few more pages before an idea squirmed in the back of his mind. He tapped a finger to his lower lip while he reread the section.

"Can't be that simple, right?" Jim murmured. He set down the book again. His eyes drifted down to his ankle and the steady green pinprick glow.

Huh.

* * *

_Brooklyn, New York City_

The cell phone buzzed only once before Leonard's hand snaked out from under the covers and slapped over it.

"Yeah?" he answered fuzzily.

_"He's running,"_ Uhura said without preamble.

_Damn it, Jim._

_

* * *

_

_Queens, New York City_

Sam told him once that people who have something to hide don't like attention. Any attention: whether a wave, a call or even a parking ticket. To be forgettable, they shouldn't be memorable.

Jim was pretty sure they were _so_ going to hate this.

As soon as he parked the car (it was a good thing Pike left his car keys each night in the same spot on the entry table) Jim sauntered over to the warehouse and began snapping pictures.

"Hey!"

Yup. _Hate_ it.

Jim took a snapshot of the sign, of the asphalt, of the three goons stalking his way. Wait, one of them looked familiar. Jim grimaced to himself when he realized where he had seen that badly sparse goatee before. He absently wondered if the guy would remember him.

"Hey! Hey! Hey!" One of them grabbed his camera. "What're you doing? You can't be here."

"Oh, I'm taking a class over at the Annex," Jim said brightly, "and pictures of rusty sheet metal are a surefire A." Jim backtracked as if he was leaving. Sure enough, a hand shot to his elbow.

"I think you better come with us, _Cupcake_."

Oh yeah. He remembered.

"Let's take him to the docks," the other suggested.

Jim held up his hands as he pressed the camera to them. He grit his teeth. This wasn't going to be fun, but the docks weren't what he wanted. He thought quickly as he watched them stomp on the camera body. Maybe he should point out that it was a digital SLR and short of a truck running it over, the flash card inside would remain intact.

"Hey, you could take that if you want. Never could get used to that ISO aperture thing. I already got some decent ones with my point-and-shoot camera that my teacher—"

A fist grabbed him by the peacoat's lapels and hauled him up to balance on his toes.

"Where's the camera?"

Jim smiled, blinking wide eyed up at them. "What camera?"

* * *

_F.B.I., Lower Manhattan_

Uhura gave Jo a fond smile when Leonard pulled out a chair for her to sit on in the conference room. Jo yawned, waved sleepily at Uhura and Sulu and went right back to sleep on the desktop.

"What do you have?" Leonard asked tersely as soon as he shut the door. He jogged down the steps and perched over Chekov's shoulder and eyed the tracking monitor.

"It stopped moving about five minutes ago," Chekov reported as he typed in the location. "Pulling up the GPS coordinates now."

As the address scrolled onto the screen, Leonard blinked.

And smiled.

"Kirk, you crazy son of a bitch."

* * *

_Queens, New York City_

Not one of his better ideas.

Jim spit out blood from his cut lip as the thugs dragged him into the warehouse. He grunted as his legs were dragged over the door frame without apology. He didn't do anything more than that though; a token resistance was all he could afford to do but geez, did they have to hit so hard? Or so enthusiastically? Stupid steel toed boots.

As the metal door was kicked open, Jim's ringing ears pounded with the clacking sounds of presses slapping over pale cream parchment paper. Iron tinged ink wafted in the air. It smelled like blood.

_No, wait. That's me._

Pallets of Blancanieves y Los Siete Enanos stood like tiny towers around the warehouse. Jim gave them a glance and felt a thin heat of satisfaction coil inside of him.

"Go get Nero!"

Without warning, they tossed Jim into the freestanding glass office in the back of the warehouse. Jim landed, hard. He rolled onto his hands and knees. He coughed.

"What exactly is going on here?"

Jim staggered, nearly collapsing into the door as he pushed it shut and turned the bolt in their faces. He grinned at the stunned look on Nero's face as he ran towards the office.

"Why'd you bring him inside?" Nero demanded.

"He was taking pictures."

Jim scowled as someone used a gun handle to bang on the glass. "Open the door! You're a dead man!"

Jim rolled his eyes. As if. He rapped on the glass with his scraped knuckles. "That sounds like inch-thick Lexan," he mused out loud.

Nero snapped at someone, who bolted off. He stepped up to the glass and met Jim's eyes.

"Keys are on the way," Nero said low. "Then you and I are going to have a talk, James T. Kirk."

Jim shrugged. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of a sleeve. He limped over to the sturdy desk. "Nice," Jim commented as he patted the seamless workmanship. Hm, nineteenth century, perhaps. The makeshift office was furnished with bookcases, a desk, even a small standing wet bar. He eased himself into the padded chair with a happy groan. "Very nice. I could get used to this chair." He swung his legs up onto the desk and crossed his ankles. He stared back at Nero, met his glower unblinkingly.

"You shouldn't have signed the bonds," Jim tsked. He casually brushed a hand across the edge of the desk. "I'm no stranger to vanity myself, so I understand the impulse."

"I'm going to kill you," Nero swore. He slapped angrily at the glass. "You're going to pay with your hide!"

Jim darkened. "Were the bonds worth Field's life?"

"They're worth yours," Nero snarled. He jabbed a finger at the glass. "They're definitely worth more than yours and Field's miserable lives, Kirk. I hope whatever they're giving you, it's worth it."

Jim grinned as his keen hearing picked up the sirens. Right on time. "It is." He smirked when everyone outside looked up. Jim waggled his eyebrows and tugged up his pants leg to reveal his tracking anklet and its steady red light.

Nero punched the glass with both fists. "You are a particular kind of bastard, Kirk!"

Jim shrugged. Nothing he hadn't heard before. He eyed the corner of the desk at the humidor with piqued interest.

"Say, is that Cuban?"

* * *

If he didn't think it would make him look like an idiot, he would rub his hands together in glee.

"Gentlemen," Leonard declared as he climbed out of his car, "we have a fugitive hiding in this building." He made a grand sweeping gesture with his hands. "Knock down those doors!"

Metal gave away easily behind a battering ram. Leonard gestured 'After you' to Uhura. After all, his mama raised him to have manners. Uhura smirked as she stepped in before him.

"Freeze!"

"Get in there!"

"Federal Agents! Get 'em up in the air!"

"This is what the law calls an exigent circumstance," Leonard declared as he walked into the warehouse. He pivoted on his heel and grinned at Sulu and Chekov behind him. "Any of you Harvard grads know what that is, huh? No hands? Nyota?"

"Exigent circumstance allows us to pursue a suspect onto private property without obtaining a warrant," Uhura cited as they drew near a handcuffed Nero scowling at them.

Leonard picked up a stray bond that had fluttered to the floor. "And to seize any and all evidence that is discovered in plain view," Leonard continued. He shook the bond at Nero. "Regardless of the connection to the original crime."

A wolfish grin spread across his face. "Hey, remember me…Friend?" He handed the bond to Uhura and stepped over a stack of books. He snickered as he caught a familiar face. "Oh hey, Sulu, there's his lawyer."

The smile faded somewhat when Leonard approached the office. Kirk was smirking—although it was hard to tell with the swollen jaw and rapidly blackening eye—smoking a cigar as he hobbled over to open the door for him.

"More local color?" Leonard deadpanned.

Kirk couldn't hide the wince when he shrugged. Leonard caught the way his left arm wrapped around his middle. "You know me. Making friends everywhere I go."

"Uh huh. You are a natural diplomat." He motioned Kirk to sit on the edge of the desk. He tipped Kirk's head back, grunting before he pulled away.

"Jim," Leonard shook his head. "What were you thinking?"

"'Those circumstances that would cause a reasonable person to believe that entry (or other relevant prompt action) was necessary to prevent physical harm to the officers or other persons, the destruction of relevant evidence, the escape of a suspect, or some other consequence improperly frustrating legitimate law enforcement efforts,'" Kirk quoted. His eyebrows went up and down. "United States v. McConney," he added. "Hey, _you_ told me to read that book."

Leonard barked a laugh. "And you _listened_?"

Kirk answered with a cloud of smoke and a bloody grin. He sobered, his attention outside, Leonard tracked his gaze to Collins and Sulu taking an extraordinary delight in reading him his rights.

"Will this be enough?" Kirk asked. The cigar sagged between his teeth.

Leonard watched as Collins was led away, followed by Nero. "Yeah. We got him now. Both of them."

Kirk nodded, his gaze still troubled.

"No one comes back from being dead," Kirk said out of the blue. Smoke puffed out angrily between his teeth.

"No," Leonard agreed somberly. He studied Kirk out of the corner of his eyes. "But now no one else is going to die either."

Blinking, Kirk turned to him. He seemed to think about it. Shadows eased and he nodded, satisfied. He faced forward again and watched the proceedings with a faint smile.

"I could have sworn," Leonard remarked, "you were going to bring your friend in this morning."

Kirk rolled his eyes. "Trust me, it wouldn't be doing either one of you any favors."

"It could have gotten us that warrant. I said—"

"_You_ said to bring him in _unless_ I could find you another legitimate reason to be here." Kirk tapped his head. "Perfect recall."

Leonard stared at him, his mouth opened. He snapped it shut, looked down at the anklet around Kirk's leg and grunted.

"You cheated."

"I did not!" Kirk sat up straighter and glowered. "I just…found a better solution."

"Oh yeah, I'm going to have a _fun_ time explaining that to Spock," Leonard muttered under his breath. He didn't relish the meeting with the A.D.A. He shook his head. Only Kirk.

"You know," Leonard said slowly with a smirk, "you're really bad at this escape thing."

Kirk shrugged, winced again and raised his cigar. "Cigar?"

"Cuban?"

Kirk swung his legs as he puffed on it. "You should arrest me."

Leonard snorted. "I'll let the cigar go, but you are a fleeing suspect." He paused when Kirk smirked and nodded behind him to an open safe. A very familiar looking parchment laid out in open view.

His grin broadened. "Well, well, is that what I think it is?"

"Why, yes," Kirk smugly taking out the cigar and rubbing it out, "yes it is."

Laughing, Leonard took up Jim's stogie and took a deep forbidden inhale across its skin, taking in the distinctive Cuban scent. "You know this makes me 3 and 0?" Leonard drawled as he twirled the unlit cigar.

"Yeah?" Kirk mused. "Maybe I'm not trying hard enough."

"…You cracked that safe open, didn't you?"

"Bones, you gotta learn to stop asking so many questions."

"And you gotta stop calling me 'Bones'".

* * *

_St. Vincent's Hospital, New York City_

"So have you decided?"

Leonard lifted his head to consider Kirk on the gurney. Luckily, Kirk hadn't tried sitting up again and took Leonard's threat to handcuff him to the bed seriously and stayed put.

"Decided if I would handcuff you?" Leonard replied. He grunted and went back to his Blackberry to review his emails. "Yes. They said the X-rays are done. We can wait to hear if that thick skull of yours really does have concussion first."

"I know what they'll say: ribs cracked not broken, no concussion, no internal injuries—"

"You don't know that," Leonard interrupted for the third time.

The eye roll was audible. "_Please_, I know enough."

"Yeah?" Leonard folded his arms and cocked an eyebrow at Kirk. "Enlighten me. Last I checked, you had two fake PhD's, three MBA's, _taught_ under two of them, but I don't recall an MD somewhere in your falsified resume."

"Well…you know…" Kirk waved lazily a hand in the air. "Experience and stuff."

Doing the math, Leonard grimaced. "Experience, huh?"

The hand froze mid-circle and lowered. "Sure beats book learning sometimes," Kirk nodded. He folded his hands across his stomach and fell silent. "Trust me, I'm fine."

"Hey," Leonard said gruffly, "_I _was the one with all those years in medical school. _You_ were the one who threw up on me."

"But I feel fine."

"You'll live," Leonard relented. "You'll probably not be happy about it for the next few days but you'll live."

Kirk winced as he touched his cut cheek. "But will I still be pretty?"

"Were you ever?" Leonard shot back. "Just lie back and wait for the results." He went back to pretending to read his email but not before frowning at his watch. The resident _was_ taking a long time though. The films were clear, right? They wouldn't have triaged him back into the ER otherwise. But what if they'd found a—

"You didn't answer my question."

"What?" Leonard was momentarily distracted from the list of possible conditions. He peered up at Kirk.

Gingerly propping up on his elbows, Kirk met his eyes. "My question: have you decided?"

"Decided?" Leonard parroted.

"For your kid."

Sagging, Leonard shook his head. By now, Christine was picking up Jo from the office and the number of days she was still going to be there had shrunk by one. Was it worth planning something for only the day or two left? After he hadn't been there all this time?

Kirk looked at him steadily before averting his gaze. "You know, I never knew my father," he said quietly. "Lost him day I was born."

Startled, Leonard could only say, "I didn't know that."

There was a quicksilver smirk to him. "There's a lot you don't know." The smile faded to a weary twist of the mouth.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm not trying to get your sympathy."

Leonard didn't think so. "So, you're telling me this because…"

"Because I know your kid wouldn't care where you take her," Kirk said carefully. "She just wants you there."

Leonard didn't realize he was gaping at Kirk until the other cleared his throat, his ears pinking. Kirk's gaze slid away.

"I know that sounds clichéd—"

"I'll say." Now it was Leonard's turn to look elsewhere. He scratched his jaw. "But it doesn't mean you don't have a point."

"Maybe you don't have to be the best, you just have to be there." Kirk said quietly, his voice curiously absent of its usual teasing.

"You know I guess that's good advice." Leonard knew the same could be said about brothers and Sam. He had run the database. Sam was just gone. And he ran Edith—although part of him argued the wisdom of that—and she was gone as well; her aliases, her movements disappearing after intersecting Sam Kirk's.

Leonard stared at the stubborn bruised face. Sometimes it was hard to let go of the family image you had in your head. It had been that way with him for a long time too. Maybe a friend, a good friend, waited until you were ready to go there instead of forcing you to see the truth. He hoped he'll be able to one day convince Jim this really was a good thing; that being abandoned didn't mean he was left alone.

He sighed; when had he started thinking about Jim Kirk being his friend?

"Bones?" Jim asked tentatively, a little uncertain.

Leonard shrugged. "Jo's a good kid. She's never wanted much."

"She is a good kid," Kirk agreed. He paused. "Must take after her mother." Kirk snickered when Leonard whipped around at him. Kirk dropped back onto the gurney, chuckling.

Grumbling, Leonard turned away and faced the curtains. Where was that damn doctor anyway?

"So…" Kirk said slowly.

"What?"

"Her name's Nyota, huh?"

Leonard winced, thinking back to the raid. "You did _not_ hear that from me."


	7. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_87 Riverside Dr, New York City_

"Can't beat that view."

Jim lowered his paper and blinked blearily at McCoy standing by the door.

"You still look like shit," McCoy told him bluntly.

"It's only been two days." Jim rolled his eye—the other was too puffy to do anything more than stay shut—and lifted up the paper again.

"Here."

There was a quiet, hollow sounding _thunk_. Jim turned back and stared at the wine bottle in the center of the table. He looked up at McCoy. The agent shrugged.

"A deal's a deal." McCoy tilted the bottle towards him. "Good-bye. That's all the bottle says?"

Jim brushed his knuckles across the label. "That's what I think."

McCoy fell silent. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stood by the table, studying the bottle.

Jim cleared his throat. "Coffee?"

McCoy shrugged. "Sure. Why not?" McCoy paused. "Italian roast?"

"Absolutely."

"Is that cream or milk in there?"

"Please, as if I would destroy it that way."

"Alright, then." It took some effort not to snicker when McCoy sat down and poured himself a cup.

Jim watched as McCoy took a deep appreciative drink before speaking.

"Thanks."

McCoy nodded and turned to look at the view.

"I know you don't think it will help to have this." He touched the wine bottle again brushing his fingers across it. "But I think I need it right now."

"I know." McCoy exhaled slowly. He took another sip of coffee, his face thoughtful as he considered something on the horizon.

"My father was terminally ill," McCoy told him quietly, a beat later, still not looking over. "Pretty much was given a timeline and that was it. But my mother…She was desperate. Looked at alternatives: treatments in Europe, Eastern medicine, everything…" He shook his head.

Jim waited.

McCoy sighed. "Then this guy approached, this…this—"

"Con artist," Jim guessed quietly.

"Yeah," McCoy said shortly, "He came in, showed them a lot of convincing data, offered this blasted treatment, pills and powders…" McCoy darkened. "If they had only come to me, I could have—we buried my father a lot sooner than we should have. Four months later I was in training for the agency and set on finding him. There were fourteen other families just like mine that man used like a personal banking system."

Jim cast his eyes down at the table. "I guess I can understand why you think we're all alike," Jim relented.

"No, not _all_ of you."

Jim blinked at McCoy. The agent smiled faintly at Jim.

Tentatively, Jim smiled back. He went back to his coffee.

"But that doesn't mean I'm not keeping my eye on you."

Jim snorted. "My very own stalker. I'll have to mark that down in my journal."

"You have a journal?" McCoy sat up.

"You wish."

Chuckling, McCoy reached over to snag a cranberry muffin. Jim glared at him when McCoy gestured vaguely for the butter by his hand. The agent didn't relent until Jim begrudgingly slid it over.

McCoy shrugged. "Maybe not so much a stalker." He gave Jim a crooked smile. "Maybe more like a friend."

"I don't know what I'd do with a friend." Jim said casually, pretending to consider this, "Would you plan heists with me?"

"No."

"Show me the forged art the F.B.I. has in its evidence vaults?"

"No."

"Be my wing man as I ask Nyota out?"

"Hell, no. Though it might be fun to watch her break you like a toothpick if you tried."

"Doesn't sound like having a friend would be much fun then," Jim muttered but there was a gleam of something just a little bit pleased in his face. Warmth spread across his chest like a blanket over him.

"So, what do I get out of this then?"

"Beats the hell out of me." Leonard shrugged, looking distinctly ill at ease now.

"Do I get to call you Bones? If we're friends I should get to call you whatever I want, right."

"Not in this life time." Leonard objected even as Jim interrupted him.

"So…Bones, heard you're going on vacation?" Jim said casually as soon as McCoy popped a buttered morsel in his mouth.

"How did you…" McCoy coughed. He covered his mouth with the napkin Jim threw at him, his narrowed eyes glaring over his fist."Never you mind."

Jim smirked. He folded the paper. "So I guess you decided."

McCoy shrugged, but Jim could see him fighting back a grin. "Going to fly back with her to Atlanta. Talked to my ex. Thought this year I'll do the back-to-school shopping, let my girl be the tour guide for once. Take me to her favorite museums."

"Dinosaurs?" Jim guessed.

McCoy grimaced.

"You know, that makes 'Bones' all the more poignant," Jim wheedled.

"I already have a name I was born with," McCoy grumbled.

"It's quirky."

"So is your face right now."

Jim sniffed and sat back in his seat. He looked out into the view.

"So," Jim said. "Going on vacation."

McCoy pried himself away from his coffee long enough to reply. "I'll be back in a week."

Jim looked McCoy up and down. "Still wearing that suit," Jim noted.

The glower above the cup rim was comical. "I love this suit." McCoy sat back.

"Aren't you going to ask me?"

Jim took a sip from his cup. He deliberately took his time setting down the cup. His hand trembled a little. "Did they make a decision?"

McCoy pulled out a card fold. He grinned and flipped it open to reveal a badge and Jim's photo ID. "Figured if we didn't, you'd end up making one of these on your own."

A knot loosened in his chest. Jim laughed as he took the badge. "I'm official!"

"You're a consultant and I own you for four years." McCoy glared at Jim's arched eyebrow. "You know what I mean." He cleared his throat. "You okay with that?"

"Yeah." Jim spared the bottle a glance though.

"Jim."

Raising his eyes, Jim found McCoy studying him with a serious expression.

"This is a second chance you're holding there."

Jim nodded.

"I know," Jim said before McCoy could continue. "I just don't get _why_ you're giving me this second chance."

McCoy chewed his lower lip as he considered Jim.

"Because you showed me you're not like every con," McCoy said finally.

"That's what I'd been trying to tell you," Jim reminded him without any heat.

McCoy shrugged. "I'm a slow listener. But I'm listening now."

Speechless, Jim could only nod again.

McCoy coughed in a fist and mumbled about a meeting. He rose to his feet, but hesitated, his eyes meeting with Jim's.

"You'll be here when I get back?" McCoy asked quietly.

Pulling up his pants leg to reveal the tracker, Jim chuckled wanly. "Where else am I gonna go?" He sobered when he realized McCoy wasn't laughing. "Yeah. I'll be here."

McCoy nodded, looking satisfied for some reason. To Jim's amusement, McCoy drained his cup before leaving.

"Hey!" Jim shouted after him. "Take a picture under a dinosaur, Bones!" At McCoy's one-fingered response, Jim smirked. "It'll be funny!"

"No, it won't!" McCoy snarled back before he slammed the door to his apartment.

Jim chuckled but as soon as his eyes drifted to the bottle, he sobered. Jim eyed the holder McCoy had left for him. He opened it. For the first time since finding Sam and Eddy gone, the drifting sensation inside him settled. Friends, huh? He considered the badge.

And smiled.

* * *

**The End**

* * *

**Author's Notes:** This had been an adventure for me, venturing into Big Bang territory and into my second STXI fic. Thank you all for reading this revisit to the White Collar pilot. And yes, I kept Satchmo in because _come on_! It's Satchmo! LOL.

There are a few superstars involved in helping make this fic possible and a delight in developing: My betas myfieldnotes and penfold_x helped untangled the "has" and "had", "in" and "on", "there" and "their" and stunt coordination. Editing a Big Bang and my constant pestering of "but would it be better, if…" couldn't been fun! I would check out my Livejournal page for the illustrated version accompanied by a fab fanmix. The link to my LJ is in my profile.

Guys, _**thank you**_ so much for the reception here. I must admit, as much fun as I had with this fic, I was also painfully aware that some might think of it (ST borrowing a WC pilot) would be a cheat. This originally started out as a conversation, grew viral among my muses and goodness, I couldn't stop writing! It's been fun and yes, very tempting to revisit but it will take some thought because I don't want to just twisting the WC episodes around. You guys out there deserve better from me.

I am extremely grateful for your support, your uplifting reviews and your readership. Thank you!


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